But I Will Only Love You More
by Lily M. Richards
Summary: Ten years ago, they made a promise. Ten years ago, they experienced heartbreak for a purpose they suddenly can't seem to remember when they meet again in the middle of a crowded coffee shop in New York.  Kurt/Blaine futurefic
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So, it's been forever… But I've finally decided to post this =D I hope you like it and reviews are very welcome as are suggestions for improvements ^-^ Beta'd by **AphraelFT.**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

**Summary: **Ten years ago, they made a promise. Ten years ago, they experienced heartbreak for a purpose they suddenly can't seem to remember when they meet again in the middle of a crowded coffee shop in New York.

* * *

><p><strong><span>But I Will Only Love You More<span>**

_May 2012_

Ten years earlier, they make their promise in the cold air of a rainy day in May.

To their right, Dalton's towers rise high into the grey sky that threatens with the expected rainfall to announce the end of school. The grey stone of the school offers with its sanctity, a coolness in the late spring atmosphere. In their clear sight, they can easily make out the rigged way stone fits on stone, hacked down into obscene blocks, sharp edges protruding on every brick, the corners promising bruises should they ever be touched harshly. Yet, with the deep brown front door, with its delicate ornate handle and warm colour, with the windows that shed light to a peaceful library and show the occasional bright, smiling face of one of the students, it evens out. Suddenly the school loses its harshness and shines with a glow the students like to think of as 'home'.

They are pouring out of the heavy, double doors of the institution, students clad in dark, almost black robes and hats to match them, laughing and cheering as their feet squelch with every step over the still wet grass that stains their shoes and leaves remnants of cut off grass clinging to them.

Somewhere in the muddled crowd of black robes and hats, David and Wes are discussing their future plans fervently, already planning their visits to each other's universities, their parents beaming so proudly over the certificates they clutch at with tremblingly happy hands, discussing their sons' futures and prospects.

Somewhere, Burt and Carole are shouting for Kurt and Blaine, the parental pride of Kurt present in every way as they silently think a repeating _thank you_, for giving Kurt the opportunity to finally be happy, joined by Blaine's parents, who remain respectfully silent as they catch sight of the two boys a distance off and steer the Hummel-Hudson household to a different location to give the boys time. They don't hear any words that are exchanged, but the look on Blaine's face is one that they have witnessed before. And they know not to intrude upon it.

Neither of the two notices. They remain in a seclusion of the world and all facing it brings with it. In their bubble, for the first time, they allow themselves to see past the happiness, past the pain they could potentially face, and for the first time, they see _clearly_. But neither is willing to admit so.

There is no promise of forget, no promise of blissful happiness. Just the stark, harsh reality that clashes with their ideal and breaks it into a million little shards of glass.

After all this time, Kurt still remembers how he closed his eyes to hide the build-up of water. How he bit his lip, hoping Blaine wouldn't notice.

He will never know how much the sight breaks Blaine's heart, right there and then.

They remain silent for a while after that. The words have been spoken, shaky nods and badly acted out smiles exchanged and all that is left is emptiness as the space they spent two years minimising slowly expands again almost maliciously. For the last time, a solemn splash of sea blue meets a maze of unsteadying mahogany.

Their secret promise is that this is the last time they will see each other.

Fate's secret promise is that ten years later, they're both not sure if their promise means more or less to them now, as they stare at each other from opposing ends of a coffee shop in fifth avenue.

And in this moment, on the grass of Dalton Academy's lawn, their thoughts mirror each other again, their minds tracing the same patterns into their brains and doing exactly the same thing as they have learned to do over time together: Knowing exactly what the other is thinking. They could spend hours upon hours working out travel schedules, but it doesn't matter anymore.

They are high-school sweethearts. And teenage romance isn't meant to last.

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

The cold sun promises rain in the morning. When Blaine awakes to face the grey clouds that hang gloomily in the sky outside his apartment, he only groans before letting his head hit the pillow again with a low huffing noise and postpones his strict-six-o'clock-wake-up-slot to a later time.

But he knows when the soft squeaking of springs and an increased sense of occasional elevation to the point of almost being fully in the air surges through him, that Kate won't have any of that. Of the whole apartment, his roommate is probably the most cause for distress around here. And the bills are pretty steep, so that's saying something.

It would have been a whole lot easier for him if she didn't start belting out "Sunshine" by Rye Rye. Since the song located itself on his iPod, which she borrowed to go 'jogging' (what in all actuality was the worst cover story for early morning sprints to the nearby park to catch the 'cute' vendor selling their customary breakfast apple fritters that fully accounted for all the calories lost by any physical exercise used to get them), Blaine had not been able to convince her that the song should find its way very quickly to a nearby desktop trash can.

"One day, I will stop forgetting to delete that thing off my iPod" Blaine mumbles with sleep drunken stupor when he finally stops yawning from exhaustion and settles himself onto the couch, desperately clinging onto the steaming mug that proudly proclaims him an alumnus of Stanford University, filled with the light brown colour of the latte that promises to keep him in a vertical position for at least a few hours.

"Too late" Kate grins at him. Her voice is the chipper noise of a chainsaw on Blaine's eardrums. "I've already memorised the lyrics."

Around him, the place is an unfinished puzzle of the divide between classy and sophisticated and misplaced clothes, cups and furniture. Blaine chose their couch, for its light blue leather covering that match the white coffee table before it. Kate chose a nearby armchair of clashing lime green. And yet they work in tandem, each living in their completely opposite world with ease at the other's presence. Between them, life balances out.

Quickly sitting on the couch next to his slumped figure, it prevents him from lying back down into another fit of sleep and he grumbles a string of light curses at her, but she takes no offense, in the familiarity of the situation.

This has become their routine. Built up when they first moved in together several years ago now. And both take comfort in their deep knowledge of the other. It works well, the synchronicity of their lives as they blend in together and are moulded in any conflicting aspect, into fitting shapes.

If asked how they met, their story will barely waiver in its telling, despite its age. Through the uttering of the simple words _four years ago_, both are transported into their memories, as vivid as their twenty-twenty visions.

* * *

><p><em><span>November 2018<span>_

And suddenly, when they blink and open their eyes, it's four years ago again. There's that lost look in a black-haired boy as he exits a cab in the busy streets of New York. The yellow vehicle whizzes away with a rashness that surprises the boy and he watches it disappear into a uniform rainbow of yellow cabs in a torrent of mid-November rain.

He stilts his jacket to protect his face from the storm and slowly walks through the crowd, careful to keep his bag close by. Behind him, he trails a large suitcase and the letter with the hotel's address, where he is to stay until a more permanent lodging can be found. When he crashes into passers-by, his apologies are lost to the howling wind and the rushed footsteps of a hurried bustle and he comes to wonder already how this city can be perceived as the greatest one in the world, when no one takes even a second to just _look_ at it.

In the end, various attempts at asking for directions and the sight of a nearby policeman overlooking the crowds underneath the cover of a shop entry, brings Blaine to the front of a large skyscraper. He looks on the gold plate drilled into the cold, grey stone only for affirmation, before entering and being ushered by at least three attendees to a nearby coat hanger, before he is allowed to go to the reception desk.

The girl behind it looks up briefly with an impetuous smile that speaks of fatigue and half a salary lost on concealer to hide it.

"Blaine Anderson. I'm booked in for three weeks?"

A few clicks as her hand hovers above the keyboard, a frown and a momentary flutter of an eyelid, then she looks back up and Blaine and hands him a key with a "Welcome to Park Central Mr Anderson." And that's it. And yet, he can't help but _remember_, when he walks through the foyer. And all of a sudden, this looks like a much worse idea to him.

* * *

><p><em><span>May 2011<span>_

"_Kurt, Kurt calm down!"_

"_This place is amazing!"_

_Pearly laughter echoes through the halls of the hotel as Kurt practically zooms through it, a childlike quality to his smile, his manner, everything about him. His hand is firmly entwined with Blaine's and he is pulling the older boy through the foyer and into the elevator, ignoring the pointed looks from the receptionist who fails to find the amount of time needed to ask them if they had permission to be here at all._

"_I can't believe they actually made it!" the younger boy gushes and Blaine can't help but laugh softly as he presses a gentle, loving kiss on his boyfriend's lips. "And I can't believe" Kurt continues, cheeks tinged red from Blaine's sudden actions "That this is what you surprise me with! Weeks of suspense and all I even dared to hope for was a solo at one of the nursing homes at best."_

_Blaine hums the opening notes to Empire State Of Mind and behind the amused grin on Kurt's face, he traces the vestiges of an empty, longing sadness that makes his voice drift off with a gently probing look directed at his boyfriend._

"_That's what started this all." He breathes and Blaine notices, from familiarity with the motion, the slight tremor in his breathing, the way Kurt's eyes flicker to the ceiling to his right and Blaine knows he's intruded on a memory Kurt had so far successfully repressed. _

"_We… New Directions sang that song at the beginning of the year." There's a smile on his face now, an incongruent smile that continues his speech to Blaine in thoughts they share without the other's knowledge. The intimacy of their knowledge of each other allows Blaine to read Kurt like a book and he can divide every smile, every laugh into categories of happiness and pain. And over the last year, he has worked so, so hard to eradicate any pain from his love's world. The realisation that he brought forth a painful moment, shatter something within him. The silent assuredness he has always prided himself in having, to make Kurt smile, no matter what. _

_A light-hearted sound, like the striking of a bell in complete silence, makes the two boys jump simultaneously and the blush when they realise peacefulness of their sole company of each other has ended. At the other end of the corridor, they hear the laughter and the giggles of the members of New Directions and Kurt has to collect himself, his face, for the smallest part of a second adopting the crestfallen look that he manages to even hide from Blaine, before he beams and dashes toward the voices. Blaine just smiles, happiness radiating through his expression at the sight of a Kurt so happy, so elated and utterly free of the guarded exterior he builds up in Ohio for constant fear of disapproval…_

* * *

><p><em><span>November 2018<span>_

That night, for the first time, he lets himself explore New York. On previous vacations, workload for university proved too large to be ignored and pushed aside by pleasure. By now, he thinks, he must know pretty much all of Ohio thanks to the limited exploring of the USA whenever holidays called him home.

He finds a bar. How, he doesn't remember exactly. The maze of the city gives him a headache as it is. The rustic interior immediately flushes Blaine's cheeks with warmth as he sheds his scarf and gloves at the bar and lets the bartender stare at his half-open mouthed expression as he takes in the information that would make the pub unlikely to serve cosmopolitans. Hard liquors and beer have never made it into his list of preferences.

"Gin and Tonic?"

The bartender nods and only a short time later, with the drink, arrives a young woman, no older than himself, sitting down next to Blaine and ordering a whisky with the fervency that clues Blaine in to the fact that she must have had a pretty awful day to end up here.

"Bad night?" He questions, the words falling out of his mouth before he can stop it. When she looks at him with dark blue eyes that trace redness in them too well for her to conceal her emotions, Blaine instantly regrets his question and bites his lip nervously.

"Something like that" she murmurs, taking a sip from the glass the bartender sets down in front of her with expectant snatches at the dollar bills she peels out of her purse.

"As of ten minutes ago, I am officially single and without a roommate to support the rent for my apartment, so yeah, pretty bad night"

"Sorry"

Silence falls over them for a short period in which they both take alternate sips from their drinks.

"I'm guessing you're new here? Or at least… that jacket is"

"California lacks rain chivalrously. And snow, for that matter"

"So what brings you all the way here? Running away from home?"

Blaine barks a laugh. "Running closer to it, more likely. I'm from Ohio, originally. Stanford called, I answered, after that a job in California and now, the company moved me here. I'm still not too sure how much the city life and I will get on. It's always been small-town life for me."

"Huh" the girl seems to consider his words for a moment, her glance drifting to the right and up at the ceiling. "Can't say I'd know about that, I've grown up in the city."

"You're not missing out on anything. I can tell you that."

"Well look at that. Ten minutes and I haven't even had the courtesy to introduce myself. I can't tell whether my parents would be more horrified or yours would be concerned about your talking to a stranger who could be an axe-wielding maniac for all you know."

"Nah, I checked you out when you came in. If you have an axe hidden anywhere, I will either laugh at its being able to fit in that tiny jacket, or I'd have some serious questions about the decisions of its placement."

"Blaine" he says in-between fits of laughter in ways of an introduction, holding out his hand like the true gentleman his parents like to believe to have raised him as.

"Kate"

"So, Kate. City-girl. Can I extract a promise for a guided tour of New York from you?"

"It's a date" she grins and takes another sip of her drink, just as the bartender calls out for people to start leaving and Blaine realises he's spent far more time here than he originally planned. Tomorrow is one rare day off for him, _to get settled in_, as his boss had said, but he had still planned on having a normal schedule day and getting up early.

"So listen." He turns back to Kate when she speaks again, eyes sparkling in the dim light as she gathers up her jacket and finishes her drink. "You seem fun. And you seem interesting and I want to talk to you more. What do you say we take this someplace cosier seeing as how every club seems t be shutting down? Might as well make the most of my apartment while I can stay in it."

Blaine blushes a deep shade of crimson as he takes a suggestive edge to the comment as implied.

"I'm gay."

Kate starts for a fraction of a second before turning back to Blaine. "Well okay then… I have Margaritas and Mojitos at home" She shrugs in that offhand fashion Blaine instantly recognises and he smiles softly, startled by her response.

"Well, I'm more of a Cosmopolitan guy, to be honest…"

One wink, and her hand finds his as she pulls him out of the bar and they make their way to a seemingly rather well-off district of Manhattan.

"Wow" Blaine breathes as he takes in the building and Kate just scoffs, turning to him for a second and stopping mid-stride.

"Yeah, it's a pretty upmarket place. The only reason I could afford it was because my room-mate is pretty loaded. Or her parents are. Anyway, she moved. Apparently the Texan desert was really calling to her or something."

Blaine doesn't comment on the bitterness of her tone, just follows her slim figure through the front door. When they pass a hotel-like reception area, complete with a desk and a young man behind it, smiling brightly at Blaine's companion as she asks him for her key and Blaine catches sight of one of the pamphlets on the desk, adorned with pictures of the interiors of their 'magnificent, luxury apartments' that they advertise, Kate only hears a sharp intake of breath behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So, it's been forever… But I've finally decided to post this =D I hope you like it and reviews are very welcome! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

**Summary: **Ten years ago, they made a promise. Ten years ago, they experienced heartbreak for a purpose they suddenly can't seem to remember when they meet again in the middle of a crowded coffee shop in New York.

* * *

><p><em>May 2011<br>_

"_Oh my god" Blaine almost walks into Kurt when the taller boy suddenly stops in the middle of the doorway. Before Blaine can recollect his thoughts to direct his attention to what might have caused the sudden halt, his boyfriend bolts into the room and throws himself at a girl who is laughing wildly when she catches sight of her best friend._

"_Mercedes! I missed you so much!"_

_Their reunion is sweet, thousands of words and explanations given in a simple, tight hug and the sight of Blaine, winking at her, which tells her exactly what Kurt is doing here. _

"_You've really got a keeper there, Kurt." Santana smirks, leaning against the doorway between this and another room, presumably dividing up the boys and girls._

"_Oh I know, trust me." And Blaine is caught suddenly off guard when the countertenor leaps back across the room and soft lips press against his insistently for far too short a second for his mind to catch up with his actions. "Definitely not letting this one go."_

"_This one? I have someone to compete against?" Blaine raises one eyebrow delicately as he wraps his arm around Kurt's slim waist, relishing in the ease of the motion, the lack of tension as they stand so close._

"_If it means this pampering continues, then I might just consider getting an impromptu cru-"_

_Blaine just laughs and cuts him off with a kiss that's far from the innocent peck on the cheek they restrict themselves to in company of others. They forget their surroundings for a moment and when they lean back away again, the catcalls suddenly register with their eardrums and neither is sure who blushed more out of the two of them and whose hair is more rumpled._

"_Okay" Kurt says breathily "No competition for you. It's not fair to submit someone to a pre-emptively won contest."_

"_Glad we cleared that up!" And that grin appears on Kurt's usually so reserved face again. The grin Blaine has spent countless hours mapping with his mind ever since Teenage Dream, and in his mind, he will never forget how insanely gorgeous Kurt was with that look on his face._

* * *

><p><em><span>November 2018<span>_

"…Blaine!" When he realises Kate is shaking him somewhat vigorously, trying to pry his eyes away from the cool, marble surface of the desk before him, he jumps, losing his caution for a minute and looking around wildly before glancing back at the girl.

"Sorry" he murmurs "I… got reminded of something."

She doesn't pry, lets him have his moment of contemplation because she saw that look in his eyes. That intimacy he shared with the empty void before him as though he saw something- no some_one_ through it, as though he was suddenly somewhere else, sharing a private moment.

It wasn't her place to ask. It was his story to disclose at his own discretion.

"So they're paying for your place?"

"Huh? Oh… her parents. God no. Rent only due next month, she paid this month's. Hell of a goodbye present, isn't it?" Kate rolls her eyes. "Either way, I'm staying here as long as I can. I mean come on, best make the most of it while I can stay in a place that has more than one room and a clean bathroom _without_ the oppressing threat of cockroaches trespassing and deciding to begin a family underneath the bed."

Blaine isn't sure whether she expects him to laugh or not. So he just smiles, staring at the mahogany floor and then walking toward the elevator with her. She notices the guarded way he walks, the way he sets one foot before the other with the deliberate motion not to make an impression on her. But his attempts to hide it are awful, or she's simply taking too much care to notice his movements.

A soft 'ping' emanating from a speaker in the elevator, announces that they have reached their destination. The hallway is eerily quiet. The kind of silence that suggests a high-class society, neighbours that will knock at your door with utter perseverance and politely _invite_ you to turn down the volume of your stereo. And Blaine's natural first thought is that Kate fits in so badly into that scenario, from what he knows of her so far, that it occurs to him that she may be leading him into trouble, but- no. He has to reprimand himself. Too many terrible scenarios work themselves through his mind and he knows, he _knows _that maybe it's time to give up the Thrillers and Horror movies and to remember that this is not a bible-belt town or state. It's not like Ohio.

* * *

><p><em><span>June 2011<span>_

"_Blaine? Blaine! Where are you going? Blaine!"_

_He doesn't hear his mother's cries as he tears out of the parking space in his Mercedes, phone clutched in his grip so tightly he thinks it might break in half, but all he needs is its closeness right now, the air of availability it gives him with the knowledge that if it rings, it's right there for him to answer and hear the words of reassurance he needs._

_In this condition, he should not be allowed to drive, but he has no intention of letting that caution him as he drives as fast as the car will allow him, speeding through the motorway that's somewhat deserted thanks to the time, taking the shortcuts that have elongated the time he could spend with Kurt on weekend days considerably._

_When he sees St Rita's Medical Centre loom over him, he almost breaks down. There are hot, angry tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving dry, itching patches of skin in their wake and his hands shake convulsively on the steering wheel, but he has to keep it together. For now, he has to be strong. If not for Kurt, then for his father, for Finn and Carol, for the rest of the world and for himself._

* * *

><p><em><span>November 2018<span>_

_No_. His mind screams at him. No memories. Not that one. The memories are too much, the pain threatening to reduce him to a crumpled heap on the floor. He's gone through it before. Not again. Not _now_.

But like always, he can't control the onslaught of memories. They come and go. And going to California saved him from them for a little while, but New York just brings them all back, crashing into him like a freight train and they knock the air out of his lungs with their sudden invasion.

"Okay, Blaine? Please stop spacing out on me, it's… kinda freaking me out here. You sure you're okay?"

"Fine, fine, sorry." Blaine smiles at her half-heartedly in a way that should by now be in every _what not to do_ book or article, the way that tells people to back off because it's such a lie that trying to hide it would be fatal and so blatantly obvious even an attempt to is useless. So she shrugs, because it's all she knows to do in this situation and unlocks her apartment door to let Blaine in.

If he expected the place to mirror the rest of the building, with its prim and proper polished surfaces and its carefully preserved, potted plants and chandeliers, he's devastatingly disappointed. The interior is littered with what he makes out to be bits of newspapers and clothes that got lost on their way to the laundry basket. There's cups and plates littering the floor and tables, stacked up in the kitchen sink and-

"Wow"

"Oh god, you're not some neat freak right?" Kate rolls her eyes and laughs, seemingly used to the reaction to the place. "Not that I'd mind if you felt inclined to clean the place up, of course… Joanna always… took care of that, before."

"No, no, I just - didn't expect _this_. Reminds me of my old dorm room back at High School." The slip is out before he can control it, and he bites his lip, scolding himself mentally.

"Prep school boy?"

"Dalton Academy for boys, back in Ohio." Blaine says as blasé as he can muster his voice to be, wincing as she whistles.

"An all-boys school? Damn you must've _loved_ that." Her wink is unsettling. He wishes he could find the confidence to make a catty remark, to joke about it, say something along the lines of _yeah, you've got to be lucky to have eye candy 24/7 and none of those interfering females around_, but all it reminds him of, is that in all his time at Dalton, there was only one boy who caught his interest that much. There had been the occasional crush, the _wow he looks hot_ that floated through his mind after soccer practice in the changing rooms, but he had never had anything on the level of what he had had with Kurt. The emotional connection, the feeling of being in love with his best friend, it's worth every second of the occasional fight because there's the preluding knowledge of a reconciliation at the end.

Instead, he looks to the ground, biting his lip nervously because right now, he really doesn't want to talk about that.

"Can I get you something?" Kate pointedly ignores Blaine muttering "That _is_ a good question" bemusedly and moves through the mess and to the kitchen expertly, with the co-ordination of someone who has spent countless hours deciding that cleaning was overrated and it would be much more effective to just learn how to navigate through this, opening cupboards and drawers with loud bangs and clanks.

"I have coffee, tea, hot chocolate, alcohol… more alcohol… and beer."

"So more alcohol?"

"Well, I was really referring to vodka, liquor and schnapps there…"

"I'll, uh, have some coffee. Walking through the streets drunk is probably not a good idea."

"It's about as bad an idea as walking through the streets after 3 am and unless you leave ten minutes ago, I can't see that happening." A flash goes off before Blaine's eyes again at that statement.

* * *

><p><em><span>June 2011<span>_

_The cool exterior that already gives off an air of sterilisation and conjures up in Blaine's mind a myriad of off-white hallways and sickeningly cheerful pictures hung up on walls to give the place a more cheerful disposition and succeeding only in constantly reminding the patients where they are._

_Blaine looks up at it, eyes glassy and there are the tears again, streaming down his flushed cheeks as he tries time and again to collect himself, to calm down even if just for a moment, but neither peace nor calm come to him, the leave him hanging in oblivion, the utter and sheer blackness of a pool of dread and anger while the eight words fail to stop running through his mind, painting themselves in front of his vision grotesquely._

'_You need to come to St Rita's hospital, now!'_

_And of course there's this part of him that doesn't want to know, because while he has spoken to Kurt's father before, Burt has never actually called from Kurt's phone and when he is the one to answer Blaine's cheerful greeting after seeing his boyfriend's name flash on the screen, ice cold shivers stab themselves through his clothes and over his back. _

_He breaks down, then. Outside, gusts of wind sweep over the car park, outside, people hurry through the area to visit their friends and family in similar situations, outside, he faces reality. And when he feels his fingers go numb with the strength with which they grip the steering wheel, when he sees water splash on the black leather in a syncopated rhythm, when he tastes the blood on his tongue and releases his lower lip from his teeth, only then does he manage to croak the one name that rolls off his tongue more easily than 'hello', weakly._

_Still, his legs refuse to move; still his heart refuses to beat any slower than it has since the phone call._

'_Kurt needs you'_

_The simple repetition of those words is what lets him go on. When a sudden surge of strength and fierce protectiveness runs through his veins and leaves him standing outside, walking towards the entrance with even, premeditated steps._

"_I'm- here to see Kurt Hummel." he forces out and "One second." The girl behind the counter says, smiling in that comforting way he has grown up to hate and loathes now even more so because he's sure she could check much faster than she does._

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So, it's been forever… But I've finally decided to post this =D I hope you like it and reviews are very welcome! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p><em><span>November 2018<span>_

Kate looks at him almost pityingly when he shakes his head again, his mind ending its wanderings. For now, at least. "Come on, I make kick-ass Mojitos!" She doesn't even listen to his half-hearted protests as she pours the various liquors together and holds out a cocktail glass to him a few minutes later. He accepts it only grudgingly.

"I do hope you aren't trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me."

"If I was, do you really think cocktails would be the right way for me to go through with it?"

He can taste the bitter-sweet flavour on his tongue and, when he swallows the liquid, that familiar burning sensation parching his throat in impatience for more to numb the intensity.

"So… 'I'm gay'. That's either the worst chat-up line in history or a defence mechanism. What happened?"

Blaine stares off into space, his thoughts asking him the same thing.

"I don't know. It… doesn't seem like _my_ kind of bar, I guess… that and, um, someone used to tell me that I get mistaken for being straight almost too much for his liking."

"Ex?"

She takes his silence as a hint to not press this issue any further. In his mind, the small two-letter word echoes as he plays with the glass, tipping it over just enough to let the liquid lick the top of it. He always hated calling Kurt that, no matter how true the definition was. One of the smallest words in the world and it burned holes into Blaine's being, filled him with a dread and with a sadness that served only to lower his lashes to conceal the building up tears in his eyes.

So, with the liberation of thoughts and barriers around them from the dizzying alcohol, they talk without prohibitions until the morning sun greets them coldly and almost mockingly of their sleep deprivation and Blaine simply can't find the power to regret it, because despite having to work later in the afternoon, he hasn't _really_ spoken with anyone in years.

When inevitable farewells come closer, they arrange to meet for dinner later, because Kate has nothing at all to do, and Blaine needs to see the city.

And many more such 'rendezvous' ultimately lead to the asked aloud question of whether Blaine is still looking for a permanent place. And whether he would much mind having a roommate.

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

When a shrill, almost nasal version of The Beatles' Blackbird starts vibrating through the apartment, the boy picks himself up, blinking stupidly for a few seconds and swaying as he waits for the immediate blackness that covers his vision to pass.

"And that's work calling"

"Remember that you owe me a pantsuit! You still haven't replaced the one that is now adorned with the lovely remnants of what I can still smell as a Pina Colada and the people I have to interview tend to frown at drunken journalists!"

"Right. You, me and Fifth Avenue have just booked an appointment for five if that works? There's also a coffee shop I particularly adore right next to the store I am planning on taking you to. Trust me you'll stop moping after your so-called favourite suit when we're through there."

"Oh you men. You always promise such high ends and you _always_ fail to deliver."

"I don't fail, my dear. I _never _fail." And when Blaine raises his eyebrow and smirks to conclude their morning banter, snatches his jacket up in a move reminiscent of the all the movies that include someone making a quick getaway and bolts out the door, all his thoughts do is work themselves through the memories again.

* * *

><p><em>June 2011<br>_

"_I will kill him."_

"_Blaine-"_

"_No, Kurt. I swear to god he's dead for this!"_

_Surprisingly strong arms wind themselves around his waist from behind. A strength he has been caught off guard by before. But then, he knows that while Kurt may look as effeminate as a man can get, there are qualities about him only few jocks can even hope to surpass._

_He holds Blaine like that until his boyfriend's harsh breathing subsides._

"_Please, Blaine. Don't"_

_Had he said it more forcefully, Blaine would have stormed out of there in a heartbeat as soon as he feels the grip loosening. But it's that soft plead, with its dual undertone of 'let it go' and 'don't leave me' that keeps him in place, twisting around so he can wrap his arms around Kurt._

"_You should be in bed." He murmurs against the younger boy's hair._

"_No. I should be resting." _

_And that's all the explanation Blaine needs to keep the boy there, because he can feel Kurt's need for this closeness. Slowly, his muscles relax in Blaine's embrace, slowly Kurt's body unstiffens and goes almost completely limp and when Blaine carefully moves him toward the bed and lays him down on the soft, white pillow that smells of disinfectant and the perfume Kurt tried to mask the smell with, the younger boy is already asleep in his arms._

"_I'll take care of you Kurt." He whispers, his fingers trailing soft patterns into the messy, light brown hair. "I won't fail you again. I promise."_

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

He makes it through the meetings, through the endless process of greeting clients and listening to their life stories as they try to ask him to fix something for him, ask him to somehow mend their life and _why_ he wonders, _why do they think I can fix it?_ Because so far, he hasn't even fixed his _own _life, but as every day, he goes along with it. He appears in courts, he files papers, he clicks those little buttons on the computer that reinstate hope and comfort in his clients' hearts.

Because at best, he can at least fix others.

As time rolls by, his craving for that cup of coffee he can only get at a particular coffee shop heightens. His colleagues know when to hand him a Styrofoam cup with scorching, black liquid, when his voice deepens, his temper shortens, but it's never the same as an actual well-brewed coffee and yes, he may sound like a snob or strangely obsessed, but he just happens to like his coffee a certain way.

"I'm out" he announces curtly, flashing short smiles at friends as he jumps out of his chair and scoops up what paperwork he will need to work on tonight before exiting his work, glancing at his watch and hoping that Kate will make it to their meeting point as late as he will be. But as always, she fails to disappoint and skips up to him from the bench she had been occupying in the road, in her hand two identical paper cups and the smell emanating from them is that delicious scent that he's been craving for _hours_ now, so much that half of it disappears even before a "Hello" is exchanged.

"I've missed you my precious." He murmurs in-between sips, lashes cutting off his vision from everything that isn't a dark pool of addictive flavour.

"Okay then, Gollum. No shops with shiny displays for you."

"What-Hey!"

"No. I am not encouraging your Bowie phase again. I still can't believe you managed to get me to come out with you that night."

"You were the one who decided to use the rest of the vodka we had, to 'strengthen' the cocktails. Only alcohol would make me pull that move, Kate." _Alcohol and a picture he found in a long-forgotten compartment in his bag of a certain boy._

With matching stride, they set off, linked arms and laughter emanating through the streets as they head for their favourite shops, soon forgetting the pressing need and original plan of acquiring a suit and simply relishing in the freedom of having time to try on and buy absolutely anything.

"No."

"But Kate-"

"I look ridiculous."

"You look hot!"

"No. I do not. This is the worst colour on me!"

"No wonder you don't get any numbers when we go out. You look _fabulous_."

"No. I'm telling you, I'm not getting this… piece of fabric! I could get a gigantic poncho for half the price, made with ten times the amount of material this has!"

"Yes… and if you ever find someone to be with, you are welcome to go buy that gigantic poncho to repel other potential suitors, but until then, you will have to suffer through the media-induced overpricing of hook-up clothes."

Blaine buys it anyway, ignoring her protests because he reasons that the shop is having a "buy one get one 10% off" sale that less than impresses Kate, and that the pant suit she tried on earlier and decided to get is a present from him and he can therefore do what he pleases.

"I'm telling you. I'm not ever going to wear the dress. If you like it so much, why don't _you_ put it on?"

"Well, go through an alcohol clearance at home again and you never know I might _just_."

"Are you going to finish that coffee?" Kate asks, rolling her eyes.

"Empty. It's just there to remind me to get more."

"Yes, because you need a reminder to get coffee." She scoffs, rolling her eyes visibly.

"Why, I do. You have ameliorated your ability to divert my attention from important things such as coffee in favour of getting home sooner. I am not letting that happen."

"Well, in that case, I'll see you at home. I have to go change for this interview. I'll be on television, have to look my best." She winks, stooping down to peck Blaine's cheek and adding "I'll set it to record."

"Your faith in my willingness to watch it later is astounding."

"Oh I'm not relying on willingness here. You'll watch it no matter what. Don't forget I have the power to wipe the drive clean of the entire first _Project Runway_ season."

"You wouldn't!"

"I won't. Because you'll watch me on TV."

There's a skip in her step as she leaves, an elation the girl seems to have been born with and it's like therapy to the boy sometimes. He needs someone happy around him. Someone who doesn't grill him to tell her his darkest, deepest secrets, someone who knows him well enough to be able to live with him and not well enough to question him.

The day is slowly drawing to a close. Blaine can see the sun as its cold gaze on the earth stifles, slowly gets overpowered by the ever growing grey clouds and the dark blue that washes over the sky. Between a coffee shop and countless bars that offer to take away his worries of the day, the thought of work persuades his footsteps to alter, to move toward the small sign that proclaims to him the maker of the best coffee he has found so far.

The familiar strong aroma of coffee invades his senses as he enters the small café, scrambling through his wallet to extract the dollars he needs for his usual and when he walks up toward the counter, a momentary lapse in mind makes him lose concentration enough to frown down at the batch of bills, his vision covering only the leather interior of the wallet and the frosty green dollar bills and-

"Oh god I am _so_ sorry."

And the voice makes him freeze. And his hands loosen around what he is holding, thoughts connecting, colliding and clashing. And that scent that suddenly falls over him, that painfully _delicious_ scent of chocolate and coffee and milk and a perfume he recognises from far too long ago.

But he can do this. He can- and then, when he lifts his eyes, there's those two green-blue pools and _what?_ He thinks, _what can I do again?_, because right now, nothing is making any goddamn sense and the only word that falls from his lips, something between a shocked whisper and a sound of relish in being able to say it, is _Kurt_ and _I-_, before his mind fails him again and he's not sure he's even said it out aloud.

The silence is heavy. Like a raincloud over only them in the middle of the packed coffee shop. Blaine can only smell that chocolaty-coffee flavour that spreads over his soaked shirt and Kurt can only vaguely remember that he is holding a half-empty cup of coffee in a position that isn't entirely safe from further embarrassment, but it's _Blaine_ standing in front of him. _Blaine_, who had gone to _California_ and so made Kurt think coming to New fucking York was a good _idea_.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** So, it's been forever… But I've finally decided to post this =D I hope you like it and reviews are very welcome! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews! ^-^ I suck at replying to all of them individually, but thanks to everyone! And yeah the coffee shop idea might have stemmed from my own addiction to the stuff... XD

* * *

><p><em><span>June 2011<span>_

_He feels the fingertips grazing through strands of his hair first. When he breathes in the Sandalwood and Cinnamon smell that perforates the air around him, his slim figure simply folds into the hard, sterile mattress and into the sleep that is slowly slipping away from him, leaving him a rather drowsy mess in the older boy's arms._

_"Morning beautiful." Warm breath tickles his ear and Kurt giggles, his hands finding the material of Blaine's button-down shirt and clinging to it almost desperately while Blaine lets himself be pulled closer to his boyfriend._

_"How are you?"_

_"Mmmh."_

_"Words, Kurt. I won't survive if I have to make it through AP English without you." Blaine winks. Kurt swats him lightly in response._

_"M'fine. What-" yawn, "do I have to do for a cup of coffee?"_

_"Oh that question is like music to my ears! Come, I think your dad would be thrilled to see you well enough to walk. He, Carole and Finn were worried sick about you."_

_"They stayed here all night too?"_

_"The only reason they let _me _stay was because you looked murderous even in your sleep every time I tried to move away. They came back as soon as the hospital opened this morning." _

_When they make their way down to the café with discretion from the nurse and Kurt's still hoarse complaints about not looking presentable, Blaine can't help but notice how he walks with the careful conviction that every step he takes could be a foreshadowing to impending disaster, his footsteps barely resounding on the cold floor but every 'tap tap tap' of his shoes like gunfire to Kurt's ears._

_He puts on a show smile when his father comes to give him a gruff hug, when his half-brother momentarily lifts him off of the floor, but Blaine can see the aftershock on his face, the lines of worry and of weariness. And across the table, across Kurt's cup of coffee that Blaine hurried to get him, their eyes meet, shallow and secluded glasz that weighs down on Blaine so much more than simply pain. Kurt finds himself suddenly surprised to be facing Blaine, to know that he stayed, that he didn't leave Kurt all night. That he's here for Kurt._

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>  
><em>

"I-"

"Sir? Sir I'm so sorry! Let me get a cloth!" A waitress surges in-between them and they break eye contact as she bustles about trying to clean the mess.

"Uh. No, please, it's fine. I-I live nearby…"

It takes a bit more persuading for her to leave. Neither boy moves for a second, too caught up in the moment. To Blaine, Kurt has barely changed. Since the age of seventeen, the last vestiges of childish chubbiness have faded and he must have gained a few inches, leaving them still at approximately the same height. But Kurt looks tired. There are remnants of purple drawn underneath his eyes, remnants Blaine can only see because he's looking for something to mar the otherwise utter perfection of the boy in front of him.

"I thought – I thought you were in California"

"I was. Moved here about four years ago."

"Oh."

"You… live here?"

"No. I'm, uh, on vacation. I thought I'd come to New York."

"Good musicals."

"Yeah" Kurt chuckles awkwardly, his eyes averting, finding a pattern in the wooden counter next to them to concentrate on.

"You, um, should go clean up."

The thing is Blaine really doesn't want to leave. The thought of running off now, of saying goodbye to Kurt again, seems to him like a small fragment of ice is slowly piercing his skin. _He wants to talk._

"What?" Kurt looks at him, half-puzzled, half-shocked.

Oh, he said that out aloud. Great.

"I-We should talk. You know, uh catch up."

Then there's the silence again. That awkward line that draws itself on the ground, putting them on opposing ends, putting them at odds when it comes to familiarity. And Blaine is about to say _never mind, _about to walk away again, when he looks down and his eyes catch sight of Kurt's fingers, nervously fidgeting, picking-

* * *

><p><em><span>July 2011<span>_

"_It'll be fine, Kurt. It's just a weekend. Just one day, and I'll be there the whole time. You'll be okay, I promise."_

"_I thought I could go back…"_

"_What?"_

"_I wanted to. I – I hoped that maybe I could go back to McKinley. F-face them. I was always happy there, it was just the j-jocks that made my life hell and I thought maybe I could… handle them."_

"_Kurt, I know you miss them. But you were almost killed. You know your dad would never let you go back and I… I'd be terrified day after day not knowing if you were safe."_

"_You could come with me?" Kurt's voice hitches at the end and he looks at Blaine, his fingers twitching, the nervous habit that Blaine recognises instantly and he chooses to simply smile at his boyfriend and concentrate on the road as they drive down to Lima._

_It's the beginning of their downfall but they have yet to realise it. Because Kurt's heart constricts almost painfully with the memories of actually being at McKinley. Years from now, Kurt will find it in his unrepressed anger to blame Blaine for missing out on Nationals, before he reprimands himself that Blaine was the one who saved his life._

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

"Yeah, okay." Kurt says, and his voice seems to drift away with the soft breeze that slips through the slit in the door as someone enters the coffee shop. "Now?" the question is almost inaudible and Blaine stares at him for a few seconds, trying to find words that don't include _yes_ or _any time_.

"I should, uh, probably go change."

"Oh"

"Can I see you later?" _Control your eagerness_, a small voice tells him and he flinches, inwardly. But he doesn't miss the momentary light that fills Kurt's eyes as the boy looks back up at him and nods almost imperceptibly.

"I'd like that."

"So, um… here? I'll just… give you my number and you-"

"It's the same." Kurt whispers, eyes cast down as a light blush colours his pale, porcelain cheeks.

"Oh."

"I never changed it."

"I-um… here-here's mine then." A firm grip on the business card he holds out ensures that his hands don't shake, but Kurt notices the slight tug he has to give to retrieve the card from Blaine.

The last words they exchange are a silent _I'll call you_, before Blaine storms out the door, blinking rapidly with the change of light that fixates his eyes on the blurry landscape. He walks until his back hits a brick wall, just on the other side of the building, and takes a deep breath. One after the other. Because when Kurt took the card, his fingers taking caution not to touch his, Blaine is pretty sure his heart stopped for a minute. And holding his breath was the best way to compose himself. He hadn't let go of that breath until now and it came out laboured, accompanied by the _thud thud thud_ of his still beating heart.

His phone is shaking in his hands and it takes three tries to type in the correct number.

"Kate, you need to help me."

The voice on the other line is scratchy and Blaine can hear the ruffling of fabric.

"Getting changed! One sec!" an echo of her voice drifts through the phone and Blaine frowns, fidgeting again nervously with his tie.

"Kate, seriously, I need your help! This is a crisis!"

"Sheesh, calm down. What happened now?"

"I, um, I met someone."

"Blaine, I don't have any time for jokes right now, this is a _really_ important interview."

"Why the hell would I be joking?"

"You never meet anyone Blaine. If I didn't see you checking out waiters' asses all the time, I'd have been convinced you're asexual. Especially given your track record with every blind date I set up for you."

"You have appalling friends?" he tries, biting his lip.

"Oh come on! You've caved out of every date, you spend your life with one night stands at most and then only if the 'no strings attached' is a definite mutual agreement."

"I went out with that Roger guy of yours-" Blaine tries half-heartedly, almost yawning at just the _memory_ of the guy.

"Yes, you were on that date for ten minutes before you forced me to SOS call you."

"He was a lawyer. If I wanted to talk about my job, I'd pay more attention in staff meetings. But this isn't like that. I- It's- I just need something to wear."

"Well come home, you have plenty of clothes."

"No, I need to get something new. And I need your help."

"Oh, so you're trying to impress him? Listen honey, I have an interview in about half an hour, I can't come shopping with you."

"But-"

"Just go get something quick. Go with a wine-red shirt and black jeans. Wait, no! Navy button down shirt, black blazer and dark blue jeans, go!"

"Well, that was specific for someone with the fashion sense of Ugly Betty the early series."

"The Armani model on your magazine is wearing it. He's got the same hair colour as you and he looks good."

"Well, I'm not too sure whether I should let you be the judge of 'good'."

"_You're_ the one with the subscription to the magazine. Anyways, I have to go, Good luck, remember to hang a sock on the door or whatnot-"

"We're not going to have sex! It's just coffee!" Blaine moans exasperatedly, trying hard not to attract any odd looks from passers-by.

"Because that's not the cliché code word for sex at all."

"Goodbye Kate"

"I will require details tomorrow!"

"Bye!" Blaine all but yells at the phone, snapping it shut and already mentally calculating the distance to the nearest clothes shop. Dark blue _is_ a pretty good colour on him. He has to admit, out of all the faux-passes, Kate has redeemed herself when it comes to fashion advice. That was, if tonight goes well.

When seven pm rolls around and Blaine is somewhat worried his phone might break if he snaps it open and shut one more time, he almost jumps in response to the small metal device vibrating in his palm, sending it flying upwards into the air when his hand instinctively jerks away, only to be lunged for in a half-comical way to reveal a text message from Kurt flashing on the screen.

_Are we still okay for this evening?_

He fumbles with his phone. His fingers move skittishly over the keys, typing, erasing, typing, erasing, before a simple five word text is deemed good enough to be sent.

_Yeah! See you at eight?_

Luckily, the walk to the apartment takes five minutes, rather than the hour long shopping trip, and Blaine is changed and almost ready to go by seven forty-five, fixing his hair into something presentable and trying not to let himself hyperventilate, because it's _Kurt_ and they hadn't seen each other in _ten years_. It takes him a while to realise he's early when he arrives at the café mere five minutes later, pacing around in front of the small sign nervously before he finds the courage to enter.

And of course Kurt is already there, never to be outdone when it comes to who arrives first. Blaine can't help but watch the boy for a while, almost hiding behind the coatrack, taking in the way the younger boy cradles the coffee cup almost protectively while he takes long sips, looking out of the window at short intervals, trying to spot someone - _him_? – before he starts playing with the frayed corner of the chaise he is seated on. When a soft voice whispers his "Hey", Kurt all but jumps, coffee swaying unsettlingly high to the cup's rims, before the younger boy settles himself back into the chair with an almost sheepish greeting.

"I'll just, uh, get some coffee."

"I'll come, this one's almost cold."

Blaine represses a smile, remembering Kurt's distaste for cold mochas. They stand silently in the queue, feet shuffling across the wooden floor, closer to the counter, the silence between them drawing out into uncomfortable measures until the relief of a waitress asking for his order saves Blaine.

"Medium Non-fat mocha and a tall black coffee, please? Assuming" he turns to Kurt "that _is_ still your coffee order?"

"You remembered…" Kurt almost whispers behind him.

_How could I forget._ But Blaine just gives a simple nod, his face hidden from Kurt's view as he pays, leaves the other boy to look at him almost curiously.

When they sit, they sit in silence, each drinking in each other's presence more than the coffee that sits, almost forgotten on the table as their glances flicker to each other, trying not to get caught, quickly averting when failing. Feet shuffle on the floor nervously; fingers play with the soft surface of the porcelain, finding a distraction in drawing patterns on it, because they don't know what to say. And it's strange, because with them, they aren't used to their mind's oblivion and the utter decrease in oxygen intake their presence does to them. They are, as it is, almost scared of saying something to chase the other off.

This time, it isn't the silence they share and indulge in when they spent hours, whole nights or days, and they watch Bewitched, only laughter emanating through the room, or La Vie en Rose, the only sound apart from the movie, Kurt's soft voice as he translates Marion Cotillard's every line to Blaine, whose head rests on the younger boy's chest, listening to the soft sounds of his voice and the slightly accelerated speed of his heart beating. Those silences, those absences of speaking were never this… _awkward_, or _strained_.

"How have you been?" Kurt asks, hesitantly. Blaine isn't sure what he wants to tell him, doesn't know how to formulate words right. His life hasn't been special. All he did was go by his father's wishes. After he graduated, he went off to Stanford and did exactly what was expected of him.

"Good." He settles. "I'm a lawyer."

"Just like you planned on being." Kurt whispers, his eyes cast down on the brown liquid of his mocha.

The older boy's lip twitches, a surge of happiness that Kurt remembers. "Yeah. I guess so." His glance at the boy is enough invite for Kurt to speak. At least that small remnant of silent understandings remains.

"I'm only here for a few days. Vacation."

And Blaine isn't sure, all of a sudden, how to understand it. Somehow, the idea of Kurt being on vacation messes with his thoughts that Kurt would have pursued his dreams as well. Holidays weren't something common in any of those jobs.

"What do you do?"

"I-" it seems difficult, almost, for Kurt, to talk about it. He pauses, eyes drifting off into the far left corner of the room as he bites his lip, searches for an answer and takes a sip from his mocha. "I'm a teacher."

The tenor just stares at him, almost in wonder. He had expected answers ranging from Broadway actor, to singer to producer, anything. Not that.

"A teacher?"

"Dalton was always a safe environment for me. I felt more loved there than anywhere else. I guess at the end of the day, I just didn't want to leave that behind… "

"Dalton?"

"For a year. Not anymore. I… needed to let go. And now I've become the Holly Holliday of 2022. Subbing wherever I can, because it was the only way I could take enough time off to visit New York like this."

Blaine frowns, absorbs himself in confusion that lessens the barrier between what should and what shouldn't be said. "You could have been an actor or a singer or… Broadway star! I always told you, you could do anything… what-what happened?"

"You stopped."

The scent of coffee, splattered in the sink, swimming in the chrome until an opened pipeline presents their release. Outside, an ambulance wails into the night and from the open window, the traffic and cheerful conversations and laughter from the nearby tables, filling the coffee shop with a little more of the life they lacked to supply at that moment. Any humour has faded from their situation and only awkward guilt remains, like a raincloud, hovering low over their slumped figures.

There's that silence again, a contemplative tranquillity in which Blaine tries to find his thoughts, tries to figure out how this makes sense. Kurt had always been adventurous, more the world-adventure personality than Blaine ever had.

"How long are you here for?"

"Four days. I wanted to see the musicals. I would probably have stayed longer but-" Kurt bites his lip then, cutting the sentence short. He doesn't want to say that his crap salary doesn't allow him to spend much time anywhere where he is required to stay in shabby hotels. "I should go…"

"Kurt-"

"It's late."

"Can… can I see you again tomorrow? Coffee? Please?" It's too much effort to hack off that small hint of desperation lacing the sentence, Kurt detects it anyway. When they stand and the younger boy nods awkwardly, there's that small line again. The line that divides what social conventions have wedged themselves in-between them over the years and they aren't sure anymore whether to hug or shake hands or just… leave. And then, when a small gust of wind brushes past Kurt's shoulder and Blaine smells that familiar scent of the younger boy's cologne again, it decides far too much as he steps forward and envelops Kurt in a hug that's something in-between awkward and unsettlingly familiar.

"So when you said you had plenty of clothes at home to change into, please don't tell me you actually live in the GAP."

"What?" Blaine laughs, nervousness ringing of every chuckle as he releases the younger boy, startled by the sudden statement. "Why on earth would you say that?"

"Price tags. You are aware they're meant to be taken _off_, right?" Kurt smirks for a second, looking down at his cup of coffee and downing the rest, in amusement while Blaine goes beet red and fiddles around with the tag at the back of his shirt.

"I'll text you." Kurt says, his voice back to the quiet barely-there octave, before he turns on his heel and leaves the coffee shop, leaving only an incredibly embarrassed boy behind. He doesn't tell Blaine that the older boy wasn't the only one to make a bee-line for the nearest clothes store when their meeting was arranged earlier.

When he reaches his hotel, his feet drag him to the bed wearily, his fingers stretching out for the remote that might offer some light-hearted comedy to take his mind of things; of _Blaine_. Truth be told, he doesn't want to see the boy again tomorrow. He can't do it to himself. The small, gaping hole in his heart that he had spent years upon years healing, stitching up like a rip in his favourite clothing, carefully sewn back together to leave no trace of there ever having been a mark to fix to begin with. But of course that's not the case with Blaine Anderson. The name rings a constant in Kurt's mind, like a broken record player it reminds him of what he had had so many years ago.

And what he lost.

Because after all this time, Kurt still remembers how the frost built up on the lush, green grass, covering it in a sheen of delicate white; fragile, breakable with the tread of a footstep. The clarity of his mind was painful, almost. Because when he came to the realisation of what his future might be, it hurt him, as though all the frost had melded into a single icicle, piercing his heart.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** So, it's been forever… But I've finally decided to post this =D I hope you like it and reviews are very welcome! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

**Also:** Thank you for all the reviews, again! They really make my day 3 Hope you keep enjoying it!

* * *

><p><em><span>March 2012<span>_

"_Kurt!" the smaller body slams into him with the happy force that knocks Kurt's senses unconscious for a split second before he's laughing, countertenor and tenor voices blending in together as well as they had for 'Baby It's Cold Outside' and 'Candles', the harmony between them underlined by the note of affection._

"_What on earth are you on?" Kurt asks, arms wound around his boyfriend's waist as his hips support Blaine's legs wrapped around him securely, the boy peppering small kisses along his cheeks and jaw and neck._

"_I got in!" he cheers, a full-blown grin on his face and it takes Kurt a few seconds to tear his eyes away from Blaine's face to register the flapping piece of paper that his boyfriend is waving about in his peripheral vision._

"_W-what?"_

"_Stanford, they took me! My first offer! You have no idea how excited I am!"_

"_Blaine that's amazing!" Stanford. Kurt knows Blaine applied there. But for the moment, all those little words like California or away don't even register with him. He can't help but laugh at the happiness that is plastered all over Blaine's face._

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

_Stanford_. Blaine's long-time dream. His father's plan for Blaine. And _of course_ he had got in. It shouldn't have surprised Kurt as much as it had.

And when the static of the broken connection on the television screen becomes too much for his mind to handle, Kurt lets himself fall, fall onto the bed on his back, his easily wrinkled clothes forgotten as he tries to just sleep, forget what happened.

The usual triviality of the matter of subconscious thought fuelling dreams resurfaces only when his REM cycle reaches the state in which that handsome face chases him through corridors of black canvases. And when he wakes, his eyes divert immediately to the small glow of the print on the digital clock on his bedside table. He has never been superstitious, but today, when he sees them spell out _11:11_, he makes a wish.

There is no light to wake him the next day, the sun rises on the other side of the building and his window is angled in a way that makes him sure it was there before the buildings that cut off any view. What wakes him is the incessant beeping of his phone and he wants to curse whoever is contacting him this early, except that it's midday already and he doesn't usually sleep that late.

"I'm not being avoidant, Kate. Maybe I just don't kiss and tell." Blaine says exasperatedly, finding refuge in any room of the apartment that the brunette chasing him doesn't inhibit at that moment.

"Apparently you sleep and ditch, though."

"Does that expression even exist?"

"It does now." She says offhandedly, waving the topic away with a flourish of her hand. "Who was he? Or should I ask '_how_'?"

Blaine almost chokes on the cup of coffee he's trying to seemingly inhale so as to get out of the house faster.

"Kate! I told you, nothing happened. We talked. Just _talked_. Please stop assuming things!"

She backs of, her hands raised in defeat as she looks at him almost apologetically, taken aback by his early ferocious demeanour and mutters a remorseful _sorry_, hurrying off to get something for breakfast.

"Sorry." Her room-mate mutters, his eyes glazed over with thought, staring at the coffee table as though to burn a hole through it. Kate bites back an X-Men remark.

"Who is he?" she asks, her tone wary, figure leaning toward the other end of the couch as she sits, carefully trying to test the waters of the conversation, seeing how far she can go with questioning.

"He-" Blaine doesn't know how to explain. Where to start? The _he-was-the-love-of-my-life-and-then-he-broke-my-heart_ speech leaves some things to be desired. "I went to school with him."

"Were you two-"

"Yes."

"Oh." Is all Kate answers, noting the curt reply to the question, the way his lips purse and his fingers clench around the cup dangerously, patches of red and white appearing on his fingertips. "I'm sorry."

He leaves before the silence gets too awkward, picks up his jacket and his bag and says goodbye before stalking out of the room, footsteps resonating on the wooden floor with a determination that wrecks every last thought of 'maybe he's just tired', because he is _definitely_ worked up over this boy he met.

The fact that he has nothing to do all day until a meeting with some clients later on doesn't catch up with him until he is already outside.

But that's the thing about New York, the way that no matter how long you've lived there, you can find something to spend time doing that is new. It reminds Blaine of his visit to London. His vain attempt to see _everything_ the city had to offer and having succeeded in seeing a part the size of maybe the Dalton grounds of it at most within a week.

He spends the day walking through streets, breathing in the metallic scent of car exhaust and overpriced perfume lathered onto bodies to poorly hide the musky smell of perspiration. Blaine hadn't seen Kurt in ten years. How could it be that a simple look from the younger boy brought everything back in a flash? Yes, his face, his voice, they never left Blaine all together. They visit him in dreams, in memories, but he represses them. Doesn't make much of them, except to think _He was my past. People always remember their past vividly… right?_

Maybe it's guilt, maybe it's regret. Over the past wrongdoings, or over the past that could have been.

* * *

><p><em><span>February 2012<span>_

_The house is silent. Not unlike most days. But then, this is the weekend. And Blaine hadn't been aware of his parents taking weekend shifts too, now that he stays at Dalton most of his time. Still, his expectations clearly didn't precede him. There is a reason he is home, after all. His father had clearly insisted he get College application answers mailed home, rather than to school, so the decision to be made could be a family one._

"_Now I know, he had said, that this is up to you. But every young man needs guidance about these important life decisions." And _Yes Dad, _Blaine had answered, his tone remaining respectful, only a hint of defiance present, _ I'm sure this has nothing to do with your fear of my being influenced by my friends to choose a nearby college rather than make a decision based on quality.

_Because that, was Mr Anderson's only concern when it came to Blaine and Kurt. He feared the younger boy to not fully understand the importance of Blaine's fate. No, Mr Anderson has nothing to say about Blaine being gay, would exercise the same caution if his son was dating a girl – even though he has long accepted that will not happen – and _that_ is why Blaine doesn't object or push the issue. His father's acceptance meant a lot to him, the fact that he wasn't slurred at, or beaten up or even thrown out. The loss of contact, of a stereotypical father-son relationship weighs heavily on him, but he has more than he had expected. And that realisation makes him say _Okay. I'll come home.

"_Well done son!" His father beams, walking through the front door just as Blaine, changed into a pair of dark blue track pants and a mauve shirt, is headed to the kitchen to find something to eat while he waits for his parents to arrive home. The sight of his father, in his crisp business suit, swinging back and forth the briefcase as if he were trying to showcase to the world _Look. I am successful_, makes Blaine repress a small resentment for his waving about excitedly several torn up letters, small logos floating in the top right corner of each, announcing various universities Blaine had applied to._

"_Which one?" he asks, curiosity getting the better of him as he attempts to remain calm because his five-year old self reminds him that he mustn't grab for things. "May I?"_

_Columbia, Caltech, Duke, Dartmouth and… Stanford. The remaining letter his father holds up with an expression of pure glee. Stanford, which he has been dreaming of, Stanford which his father took him to see on so many occasions, Stanford, which they stayed several late nights up discussing, deciding which course, which fraternity-if offered-he can join, Stanford, even, which instigated possibly the most embarrassing version of The Talk for Blaine, given that his father has realised with the whole distance from home to California, who knows what Blaine might get up to._

"_I got in?" his voice is hoarse, disbelieving and his father snorts slightly. _

"_Of course you did! Just like we planned! I knew you could do it!" words of encouragement barely reach Blaine's eardrums, which seem to register only the beating of his heart. He got in. He achieved his dream. He is going to _Stanford.

_When his mother comes home, when the family sits around the dinner table and discusses the future happily, when celebrations call for a glass of champagne, offered even to Blaine, who politely refuses before putting on the expression of _oh-all-right-then-if-you-insist_, when they finally reach the point in the day when exhaustion hauls them over to the couch and Blaine has a few moments to think, he looks at his father, carefully._

"_Dad, I-"_

"_What is it, Blaine?"_

"_Well. I was thinking. Stanford, it- it's great, of course, but-"_

"_Of course it is! That is the reason we always planned for you to go there!"_

_In the background, Blaine makes out the adagio sostenuto of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, and for once, he wishes his night time lullaby away, to be replaced with something happier and more uplifting. Nevertheless he finds courage in the flow of the calming melody, the way it perpetrates his hearing, soothes his thoughts until they dance along the lines of the sheet music he knows almost off by heart. _

"_I don't know if I want to go."_

_His father stares at him, a pervasive contact builds up between their eyes and Blaine interjects with a continuation before his father explodes-_

"_I mean, I want to go to university, of course. And become a lawyer, but… I was thinking of maybe- maybe" he takes in a deep, shaky breath, draws his knees to his chest and hugs them, protectively, while gazing down at the leather of the sofa his father is seated on, "going to Columbia…"_

_They let the silence perforate the festive atmosphere. As if on cue, the soft piano melody becomes more dramatic, its long notes slowing, its octave deepening and still, neither talks. But Blaine can still hear the heavy breathing, the staccato of a pair of heels resounding on the floor as his mother comes in, tries to discover the source of sudden eerie absence of talking._

"_This is because of this Kurt boy, isn't it?" his father asks, his voice gruff, a dark glint in his eyes._

"_Hugh-" his wife cautions him, standing between the two men protectively._

"_No Marie. We have been- This has been planned for years! He was supposed to go to Stanford, take his degree, become a lawyer! It's been his dream, _our_ dream!"_

"_Father-"_

"_And now" he looks back down at Blaine, who crouches more and more into the soft cushioning of the chair he is perched on, like a cat, ready to pounce at any sign of more danger, "you are willing to give all that up for a _boy_."_

"_This is _not_ because Kurt is a guy, father, you can't possibly think-"_

"_No Blaine, this is not because Kurt is a boy. You know very well that that does not matter to me, what _matters_ to me is that you are willing to give up your entire future for this romantic notion of yours that first love must last forever, but sooner or later, he will break your heart and you will _regret_ not having gone to Stanford. You will never be able to forgive yourself for that, do you hear me?"_

"_I could go back and do a post-grad" Blaine answers stubbornly, backtracking on his thoughts that this was not some fling he was having with Kurt, that he was truly _in love_ with the boy and that it was a lasting thing, because he knew his father wouldn't hear of it._

"_Even if you do. You will have thrown away valuable years of your life and will throw away even more of them trying to make amends and regretting, Blaine and-"_

"_Father, you clearly said this was _my _choice. Well, _I_ am going to make it. This is my life and I can perfectly well decide on this matter on my own."_

_They are the last words father and son exchange before graduation. And afterwards, when Blaine stumbles into his house unexpectedly and barges into his father's office whispering weakly "Stanford", their ties are mended again, fight forgotten and put out of mind._

_What's missing is that father-son relationship protocol that demands a father offer at least some words of encouragement after his son's break up. But his father can't do that without the knowledge of a break up having even taken place._

* * *

><p><strong>TBC.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Wow, I'm sorry it took so long to update! Thanks for all the reviews, as always they make my day =D Reviews are very welcome as always! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

"Hey."

Again, they let a tranquillity settle over them, order their coffees and remain at their table, carefully sipping the hot beverages. Neither boy talks, both too shy to even know where to begin. The extent of their exchange are stolen glances, the soft puffs of air that cool their respective cups of coffee as they try to find common ground, try to come up with a topic of conversation that has absolutely no chance of ending in disaster, until-

"This is ridiculous."

Blaine's head snaps up, his eyes meet Kurt's, which have that ferocious glance in them that he recognises from too long ago.

"Kurt?" he murmurs, questioningly.

"We both know we're not going to get anywhere… catching up-wise, with this."

"What do you suggest?"

And so, they end up walking the streets of Manhattan, Blaine pointing out points of interest every now and then, carefully containing any enthusiasm from entering his tone, until they reach a bar Blaine has frequented a few times in the last years. Incidentally, it's the best one this close to his apartment.

It hurts, only a little, not knowing what to order for Kurt. But they only knew each other before the legal age. So he orders his cosmopolitan with a weary smile at the waiter and steps back, his eyes trained on the lips of the countertenor, ears pricked to listen to the order, just in case this occurrence repeats itself.

"Appletini, please."

He could have guessed. It seems the appropriate drink for Kurt. Sweet, colourful and yet strong enough to leave you with a pleasant buzz.

The seats glow green in the stark neon lights of the bar, welcoming them into the flamboyancy that promises no unpleasant disturbances while they talk. It's the sort of place Lima, Ohio would cower from, run to the hills in fear of that tiny small world of _acceptance_.

They work through the silence, let their minds fog with the bittersweet taste of alcohol that burns their throat in that familiar manner, lets them know _it's okay, you can talk now_, before either tries to think of even a word to say.

Their conversation moves slowly, edging onto topics they label as taboo, hedging on subjects neither is interested in, simply to keep talking. The familiar taste of the alcohol dims down as they grow accustomed to it, their minds start feeling foggy and hazy, eyelids dropping slightly to give them that tired air the alcohol induces.

"Where are you staying then? I stayed in Park Central once, nice place."

"If only. You do know how much pay a teacher gets, much less a substitute?"

And there it is, that uncomfortable line, breached, alcohol taking away inhibitions, pride and Kurt bites his lip, regrets his answer, looks at Blaine to discern whether the boy will make a comment.

"Hmm, I can imagine how you feel. Kate _constantly_ complains about journalism being an 'underpaid, underappreciated art very few people can master'"

"Kate?"

"My room-mate." Blaine nods. They don't realise how easily they talk, how much timidity the alcohol stole from them, how their bodies angle towards each other now, rather than away.

Neither of the two is entirely sure at what point they decide to go to Blaine's apartment. Somewhere in-between their third drink and the fifth time someone hits on one of them and from it stems the "Maybe we should just leave… I can barely hear you over the music anyway!" and the "How far away do you live?"

The apartment is dark, clearly a sign Kate either met someone and will be back sometime mid-afternoon the next day, or her interview is absolutely _riveting_. Blaine suspects the first.

"It's nice." Kurt comments, his feet tapping on the floor lightly, carefully treading as though to find a boundary he can't cross.

Blaine turns to the kitchen, switching on the light and making a sliver of light illuminate the living room, his jacket hitting the couch, where he threw it.

"Can I, um, get you something?"

"I don't know…" Kurt says, his voice unsure. His feet edge back to the door, his posture slumps slightly. He seems suddenly unnerved by being here. In his ex-boyfriend's apartment. Alone with his ex-boyfriend. The thought causes his heart rate to speed up, he isn't sure whether because of nervousness or another feeling.

"Please" Blaine whispers, voice hoarse, pleading almost, "Stay, just for a bit."

The younger boy bites his lip, contemplates, his glance flickering between the dark, brown eyes and the door, before he takes a tentative step forward again, the thoughts coursing through his mind taking a momentary detour from being logical when he sees Blaine's face brighten up momentarily, a relieved smile tugging on his lips.

Ten o'clock approaches and passes and their sense of delirium only increases, as they sit on the floor, their backs against the couch, talking about their lives, about where they went and what they did. Both parties being completely aware that they will probably regret revealing so much, the next morning, but not being able to bring themselves to care, the words flowing without much prompting.

When Kurt asks about the encircled date on Blaine's calendar, he will lie; tell Kurt that March 15th is the birthday of a distant cousin.

And Kurt is barely even aware of their bodies inching closer, their legs becoming numb as both boys use them as support from the hard floor. Their knees brush as they laugh, their heads move forward and back and suddenly closer to each other and all Kurt can see is brown, impossibly light and yet warm brown that penetrates his vision, clears his thoughts and every single _no_ his mind tells him is drowned by the feel of cool, bitter air hitting his lips. They stay impossibly still, impossibly close, for a second.

"Blaine…" Kurt murmurs, the name falling off his lips with a slight slur, a slight hesitation and the trace of_ need_ and _want_.

But when Blaine stays silent, simply nears his lips to Kurt's, making the younger boy's breath hitch and his heart beat a little faster again, Kurt draws away, leans toward the far end of the couch, casts his eyes on the gloomy floor, his cheeks glowing with a slight sheen of pink and he whispers "No." because it seems the only word his mind can conjure up. "No. I – I can't – _we _can't."

"Why?" Blaine's indignant tone makes Kurt want to hit him just as much as he wants to give in, agree with him and just follow his heart.

"You're drunk; _I'm _drunk and – no. I – I'm sorry, but… I should – I should go."

Cool air hits Blaine and then he's alone. His back sags against the couch, his muscles tense and relax in a syncopated rhythm and when did he and Kurt go back to the point where every move around each other was awkward, every touch a possible mistake and – yes. That's when. The day Kurt ended them on the wet, green lawn before Dalton, before the place that had made them.

The memory brings Blaine's forgotten glass back to his lips, follows the searing alcohol down his throat, follows the intoxicating scent to his brain, where it settles, uneasily and heavily.

Because with Kurt's simple sentence so long ago, it shattered everything they had built for them, around them. Every achievement, every memory stopped making sense to them and suddenly their lives were divided, beginning before they met, continuing after any trace of the other was gone.

The low 'thump' emanating from the hallway isn't lost on Blaine, no matter how drunk he may be. Except that rather than walk away from it, like he normally would, thinking it's just some neighbour, he is caught in a sudden web that falls toward the door and he can't help but make his way toward the blurred rectangle, because maybe he will manage to run after Kurt, to say sorry, to fix –

"Kurt?"

And suddenly, that's the only word his vocabulary comprises of. He sees the younger boy, with his slightly dishevelled hair, his somewhat crumpled clothes and porcelain skin, tainted by a single tear running down his cheek as Kurt's head is thrown back against the wall, his body almost slumping, his thoughts rotating with the simple wish that Blaine _doesn't come out here_, because if he sees him again, Kurt knows he is drunk enough to regret his actions later.

And that voice, that syllable falling from the other's lips does it for Kurt, does it for his coherency because all he can imagine right now is how simply _amazing_ it would feel if he could hear Blaine say his name again and again and _again_.

So their lips crash together in a desperate fury, teeth clashing and tongues battling for dominance, exploring each other, reacquainting themselves with each other after _far too long_. The taste of apple and vodka lingers on their tongues, brushes away conscious thoughts and small logistics that would tell them that this isn't right. Kurt's fingers wind themselves into Blaine's hair, tug at the un-gelled locks and elicit a soft moan from Blaine's mouth that makes Kurt shudder delicately against him, his back pressing against Blaine's splayed fingers as they try to get closer, closer, _closer_. A shiver tingles over his back, and there's a sudden tightness in his stomach, warmth that spreads throughout his body like a crashing wave.

They stumble, then. Through the hallway back to the apartment and Blaine feels the door crash against his back as Kurt pushes him, soft, strong lips never leaving his, fingers grasping the shirt desperately, finding the buttons, tracing them harshly, impatiently trying to pry them open and _god_ it's so difficult to open the door right now.

From the other side of the paper thin walls of the apartment, the crescendo of a soft hum, a neighbour returning home, turning the key in the lock with its crackling noise, opening the creaking door, shutting it with a soft sound that bounces through the walls, only audible to them because of heightened senses of the situation.

Blaine's shirt hits the couch, buttons visibly loosened from their stitching to it and Kurt marvels as he lets his fingers skim across his naked chest, absorbs the feeling of the smooth skin and traces absent patterns into it, until Blaine leans away, pulls Kurt's t-shirt over his head, throws it away in a manner that would usually have Kurt in a frenzy, make him check it wasn't wrinkled and fold it properly, but his attention remains on what fabric still separates them as they move uncoordinatedly through the apartment, hit walls and only just make it through Blaine's bedroom door before the older boy pushes his back against a wall in retaliation to Kurt's earlier action, almost chuckling.

"There's – bed…" Kurt gasps, lips freed when Blaine starts lavishing his neck with heated kisses, bites the delicate skin covering his clavicle, making Kurt whimper and he feels like he is going to melt in the older boy's arms if Blaine keeps this up. And yet Blaine seems to have at least some sense of direction, even in his haze, when he backs Kurt up against the edge of the bed until the boy's knees hit the edge and his back connects with soft fibre, Blaine straddling his hips comfortably and continuing to kiss his neck before Kurt tugs his hair, hard, pulls their lips back together, clinging onto Blaine's body desperately.

In the end, it's sloppy and messy and completely unlike the romantic scenario Blaine might have mapped out in his mind for this, but it's new and exciting and filled with passion and love that overwhelms them; crashes into them with an intensity they never imagined or expected. And even the memories the intimacy brings get erased by the emotions that take over their minds.

A shattering of a glass within his dreams tears the countertenor's eyes open, blackness filling his vision immediately and then, the soft glow from the streetlights below, outlines of an unfamiliar set-out of a room that mixes in scents he recognises with those that convince him of the unlikelihood that he is back in the hotel.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. Moreover, the feel of soft fingertips stroking the crook of his neck make it obvious that Blaine is not in that unconscious state of bliss that had taken over Kurt quite quickly. The older boy always did take liquor better.

"I never really managed to get over you."

Kurt can feel Blaine's hot breath tickle his ear and represses a pleasant shudder rolling over him. Because he _needs _Blaine to continue, knowing the older boy will only have the courage to do so, thinking Kurt fast asleep. So he closes his eyes and allows himself. Allows his mind to simply listen, to simply respond to the tender touch with the fluttering it creates in his chest.

"Whenever I tried- tried telling myself that you'd be over me by now, that you had probably moved on and- and then I remembered your face. The way it lit up, the way you smiled so beautifully when we first met, the way you smiled when we first kissed… every smile, every laugh, every expression would just… rocket through my mind and I found myself hoping that maybe- just… maybe…"

And then, the voice trails off, leaves the two boys in silent darkness of the night, only the sound of traffic and late night party-goers audible outside and only when Kurt can make out the even, peaceful breathing somewhere close by in the black canvas, does he allow a shallow breath to pass through his pursed lips, his body rippling with tension and he knows that a peaceful sleep is the last possible thing for him now.

But the voice is slowly lulling him into unwanted sleep, into depths he dares never conquer. Blaine's voice drifts into his mind with images and _skin tight jeans_ and _an empty land_, and there is nothing Kurt could do because he is so, so tired and he is reminded once again of linearity, parallelism he had once applied to Blaine's and his lives.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Wow, I'm sorry it took so long to update! Thanks for all the reviews, as always they make my day =D Reviews are very welcome as always! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^ **AphraelFT **rules for putting up with my general insanity and beta-ing :D

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

Sometime in the morning a cold breeze tickles Blaine's back, sweeps over the sheets and makes him groan in frustration at the light that suddenly fills his vision, tearing him away from blissful sleep that he definitely needs, before a darker sight sets itself before him, bright green porcelain, smoke drifting from it lazily and a delicious scent drifting around him.

"Morning."

Is… the cup talking to him?

"No, It's just me."

Oh. He said that out loud.

"Yeah, you did."

His gaze drifts away from the cup and up into a myriad of concern and amusement.

"G'away Kate." He mumbles sleepily, burying his face into the pillow and stretching out his arm to –

Oh.

"Here" Kate prods his waist, making him jump at the contact, until he half-sits, before shoving the cup into his hands and telling him to drink.

"He left." She says, her voice careful, calculated. "Ran into me on his way out at around… two in the morning? So _that_ was the notorious Kurt, I take it?"

"He left? Did he say anything?"

She looks at him. That pitying look that tells him yes, Kurt did and no, he won't like it. "Kate?" he pries, biting his lip, shutting up his aching head from what conclusions it comes to on its own.

"He said to tell you that he's – sorry. And he mumbled something about '_I can't do this._'"

Blaine swallows the black liquid, lets it run over his tongue and remove the leftover taste of alcohol and – no, he can't go there, not even in his thoughts.

"What did you do to him, Blaine?"

_Nothing. I don't know. I thought he would stay. I hoped… Nothing._

She sighs, runs a hand through his hair and slaps his cheek slightly, establishing that mothering vein she does possess despite all her disagreeing to that being possible.

"Hey. Go for a shower and get dressed, I'll have some coffee for you when you're more awake and we can talk." Not a question, a statement, and Blaine knows he can't get out of this again. She did practically catch him red-handed.

He knows he looks like crap. His hair is a complete mess, his clothes dishevelled and his shirt is on backwards. His shoes are untied and every now and then he almost trips, having to hold onto a wall to avoid a fall that would mar his appearance even more. But he tries his best to ignore the looks as he enters the coffee shop, orders a black coffee with extra espresso shots and sits down for a moment to catch his thought, to cradle his throbbing head and just _think_, just somewhat clearly.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

Kurt turns to the waitress, looks at her with as kind a smile as he can muster and accepts the paper cup she offers him with a smile. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine, thanks." He says and leaves the place, heading for his hotel room, because as soon as he finishes this coffee, all he wants to do is sleep, process what the hell just happened.

It's been ten years. Ten years in which, somehow, he had slowly started to hope that maybe, just maybe he was getting over this, moving on, forgetting. Of course, he would amply choose a career that would serve as a reminder of everything that had been good in his life. That was just his idiotic luck, wasn't it?

He had started to build a life, nevertheless. Watched his friends take their own paths, realise their own dreams while he remained stuck in the one state he had sworn he would escape the second his eighteenth birthday reared its head. He had had an entire plan, a plan involving all his favourite things. And he had known exactly how he could do what he wanted. And then all of a sudden, he had been standing outside the principal's office, looking to take over for the French teacher who was retiring.

And yet, he really did try. Kurt had tried dating, going to singles events, even online dating once, and yet he ended up leaving most dates early or cancelling beforehand. It just became too daunting a prospect. He didn't even know if he wanted to date. He just wanted to fill that empty, gaping hole that had been left behind.

But every day, arriving home, letting his tired body fall on the hard mattress, there was only one face he saw, only one recurring dream, a spider web woven of memories and voices, sucking Kurt in and trapping him in their midst with no escape.

He resents Blaine. Every single fibre of his being resents the other boy for doing this to him. Because the morning before, when he woke up, all he had planned was to spend the day shopping, meet Blaine for one single cup of coffee and then go away, forget about him, go to the Wicked musical he had got tickets – crap. His hands meet only empty space when he tries to locate them. Them and his hotel key. And his jacket. So much for just slipping out of Blaine's apartment in a rush to avoid seeing him again, still dazed from what had happened and the alcohol.

But maybe the hotel will understand and let him in to sleep off his hangover. Because right now, his head is pounding and every fibre of his being just wants to go to sleep and stay as far away from Blaine as possible.

"Hello? I'm Kurt Hummel, I've – I think I must have misplaced the hotel key and I – uh –"

"Mr Hummel? Yes, someone left these for you just a while back, said to give them to you and say sorry but he had to go meet a client."

Again, Kurt's heart sinks, rises, is caught in a web of confusion because it can't decide on what emotion to bar from Kurt. So he reaches out, mutters his thanks and snatches the jacket, ticket and key from the woman, heading to the elevator and tapping his foot impatiently with every _ping_ emanating from the speakers when he hit another floor of the building. So Blaine had seen just how low quality Kurt was lodging. Great, just _great_.

But no. Kurt doesn't have to worry about that, _shouldn't_ have to worry about it. After all, he wasn't seeing Blaine again. The boy had broken his heart once. The man had driven him to make a mistake once again. That was it. With a snap decision, Kurt imagines severing the invisible ties he had conjured up in his mind to Blaine. Like an opening of a new musical, the red ribbon rips and he walks past it, away from the crowd behind and into a glorious new sunset.

If only life were as simple as figurative thinking.

That night, they visit him again, like conspirators in the dark, reminding him hauntingly that he can't outrun the past, even if he trains enough to win the New York marathon. Thoughts travel faster than strides.

_August 2011_

"_This is a special event? I mean the fifth anniversary of all?" Kurt asks, eyebrow raised. Blaine looks at him in mock-horror._

"_Why of course! Very special indeed."_

"_Well, I just always thought it was the six month mark or year mark that really counted…"_

"_Au contraire, mon petit ami. __Five is my lucky number. Therefore this is immensely special."_

"_I see you've been practicing your French then?" Kurt questions, his eyes shining brightly at Blaine's term of endearment._

"_I had to, my teacher is absolutely terrible."_

"_Well it's not his fault you can't keep your hands of him when he tries to talk to you in French."_

"_What can I say? It's a hot language." Blaine smirks at him and pecks his lips quickly, careful not to get distracted from driving. Kurt simply continues staring at the picnic basket on his lap, wondering at what point he had become laidback enough to not throw a fit at the mention of grass stains and outdoor eating._

_They halt at the foot of a hill, a few miles off the road. The tires crackle over the yellow gravel that covers the floor until a carpet of lush, photosynthesised green grass decks the raised mound, held to place by a single old oak, gnarly branches extending over the hill and throwing spidery shadows on the grass. It provides only minimal shelter from the quickly scalding sun, but it's enough and Kurt has never said no to an opportunity to sunbathe, as long as he has the right lotion to keep sunburns or worse – wrinkles at bay. _

_The door beside him creaks open and his cheeks colour delicately when soft fingers pry away the basket and entwine themselves in his. Scenes from Jane Austen movies play before his vision teasingly._

"_Such a gentleman."_

"_Only the best."_

_There's still dew covering the ground in a sheen of glassy reflections and Kurt lets his fingers trace the cool, damp straws as he sits down on the blanket Blaine provides, big enough for both of them to lie comfortably, Kurt on his stomach, his gaze averted, cheeks tinged a subtle rose colour and Blaine on his back next to him, his eyes closed in a blank stare at the bright blue sky._

_He's dozing. He must be. Kurt lets his eyes wander to the handsome features, the way the sun hits him flat in the face, shading his cheekbones in a delicate, barely-there line. Carefully and suddenly curious, his fingers reach out, caress the line between dark and light, marvel at the soft feel. When Blaine simply sighs contentedly, Kurt thinks he's safe, that his boyfriend must be asleep._

"_I've always loved this place."_

_A low chuckle elicits from the older boy as Kurt freezes upon hearing the words._

"_Why'd you stop? It felt nice…" he murmurs, opening one lidded eye, gazing almost dreamily up at Kurt._

"_Ah, here it ends, with the manipulation of your boyfriend into thinking you were asleep…"_

"_Correction. You assumed," Blaine hums lowly, the edge of his lips tugging up into a smirk, "I simply… revelled in it."_

_They stay motionless for a while then, faces turned toward each other, simply watching. Around them, there's the soft sound of birds as they ascend into the sky and dive to the ground again. They are surrounded by a sweet scent of fresh air and leftover moisture from the late summer drizzle of the previous night._

_It's not difficult to see why Blaine likes this place. In-between the calm songs of the birds and the ever so gentle shade of the tree that supplies them with just enough sunlight; with the person he loves more than anything in the world right next to him, Kurt feels, for the first time in a long time, entirely at peace._

_September 2022_

It's midday, somehow, when Kurt wakes up again. The pain rushes back to his head for a split second only and darkness covers his vision as he gets up a fraction too early.

There's translucency in the light, a light bulb that shines with bad imitation of the sun and plastering neon that almost sickens him in its artificial fabrication. He doesn't remember switching it on. There's nothing he wants to do. Nothing he can think of doing to take his mind off things, not until the matinee performance of Wicked starts.

He almost forgets his appointment with the devil. When his phone rings and snatches him away from the dreamlike state of thinking, the words on the other line let his breath escape him relieved, the voice almost like a soft lullaby to his ears. And that is saying something.

"Hey, ladyboy. No one keeps us waiting; I thought I made that clear in High School!"

"Oh," _crap _"Yeah, I – I'll be there in about ten." He says, his thumb toying with the red button to hang up before her catty response reaches him.

"Talk to me" Kate says, blocking the doorway, leaning against it with her arms folded, a bemused expression on her face.

Blaine mumbles something incoherent in response, his face buried in the towel as he shuffles out of the en-suite, another towel wrapped around his torso and water dripping from his hair and down his skin.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Blaine snaps, his voice hitching, his eyes avoiding contact with hers. "You already know it was Kurt."

A slow creak and the grating it creates inside Blaine's mind. He winces, glares at the girl that drapes herself all over the bed in an attempt to keep him away. Which works to a certain extent, by allowing him to move past. Tense movements as he pries drawers open and gets dressed, yanking a white polo shirt over his head, repressing a groan when he feels moisture seeping through it already and blotting it as dry as he can with the towel, grabbing the nearest pair of jeans he can find and ignoring the burn as the denim scratches his legs.

Socks are too far from his mind. He walks away from the scene, lets his feet shuffle tiredly over the heated floor, fingers rubbing in circular motions over his temple, attempting to alleviate the throbbing pain that inhabits his skull. A scent that hits his nose seems like heaven to him, and for a moment, he considers grabbing the mug and just letting himself fall back on the bed to sleep away the pain. A loud bang as his bedroom door gets shut convinces him to abort that plan of action, tells him that he won't actually manage to make it back again. No, the couch is a much more viable option.

Once again, his mind congratulates Kate's stubbornness in not letting him decide on a patent, shiny leather couch because it was much classier. Class could screw itself for all he cares at the moment; the plush that sinks slightly under his weight is pure bliss.

They drown again, into their routine of four years running. Blaine settles himself into the furniture, letting his weary head rest on the supposedly decorative throw cushion that they only chose because the salesman practically assaulted them with it. When slim fingers wind themselves around his ankles and lift up his legs to bring them to rest again on Kate's lap, he subconsciously eases his weight, smiles drowsily and brings the thick, warm porcelain to his lips to practically lap at the hot liquid inside. Kate simply watches him, waits for the sign that tells her 'It's okay. You can ask me questions now', and when curiosity and impatience conspire against better judgement and respect for privacy, she hooks her arms around his knees to trap him and almost smirks at the look of shocked realisation that fades across Blaine's expression.

"Kate, I have to go. I need to get my suit from the dry cleaners and then I have to go meet a client at nine, I don't have time for this."

"Well then." she smiles almost sickeningly angelically "Just tell me who he is."

"Let me go."

"Do you like him?"

"Kate –"

"Are you seeing him again and can I officiate at the wedding when you two elope in Canada?"

She feels a sharp kick against her elbows and gasps, jumping up in surprise as Blaine wriggles away from her, standing in front of her, teeth biting his lip, fists clenched.

"No." he says slowly, letting every painful letter sink in properly. "We _won't _be seeing each other again. Leave it alone Kate. Last night was a mistake and with his response he _obviously_ agrees with that sentiment."

She only hears the front door slam shut, her eyes wide and concerned as the palm of her hand nurses her sore jaw where her arms pushed in as a result of his outburst. There isn't time enough for her thoughts to collect themselves and murmur an audible "I'm sorry".

**TBC.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Wow, I'm sorry it took so long to update! Thanks for all the reviews, as always they make my day =D Reviews are very welcome as always! Suggestions for improvements are one of my cravings ^-^ **AphraelFT **rules for putting up with my general insanity and beta-ing :D

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p>The small café that borders on the street adjacent to the hotel faces Kurt only fifteen minutes later, his hair mussed up into what could have been perceived as an intentionally messy hairdo – a trick he learnt back at college – and his clothes fashionable enough for him to stand out. Which, spotting the dark-haired girl sitting at one of the wooden tables outside, laughing happily at something Brittany tells her, was apparently not only <em>his<em> intention.

Santana and Brittany seem to have carried on their legacy of presenting fashion where tastes were begging to be improved. As is her preference, Santana sports a short, sleeveless denim dress and a matching jacket draped over it that reaches down to her waist, complimented by grey, heeled trainers.

When she spots him, Brittany lifts her legs from where they were draped over Santana's and almost runs at him in high-heeled sandals, light blue skinny jeans and a white crop top displaying the words _Paris, Je t'aime_ in black. "Kurt! I missed you!"

Strong dancer's arms lift him up easily and Kurt inhales the familiar, sweet scent of candy and a slightly more daring perfume underneath it – presumably Santana's. The simple action makes Kurt laugh, lets him forget things – at least for now. But then, Santana has always had an annoying amount of insight when it comes to seeing someone worried. She didn't spend half her life with secrets for nothing.

But when Kurt catches sight of her, smiling, dimples still creasing the slightly round face that could never fit anyone as well as it fits her, the way her eyes sparkle with everything Brittany says, the pure ease with which she moves, he ignores the fear that she might know something.

She looks good. She looks tied down.

They sit back down, Brittany and Kurt, and wave over the waiter to order another round of coffee ("No Santana" Brittany scolds, "You can't drink Irish coffee this early!"). Maybe from the way his fingers clasp the mug he gets presented with, maybe from the way his gaze flickers across the street, maybe from some other unnoticed action, Santana suddenly frowns, fixes Kurt with her best _you-can-run-but-you-can't-hide_ stare.

"Well well, what's eating Gilbert Grape?"

He forgot about Santana's Johnny Depp phase. "Are you trying to insult my clothing _and_ my hair, or –"

"Kurt."

Silence. Brittany's inquisitive, interested glance, her eyes moving in an almost hilariously rapid motion from her girlfriend to her best friend. The almost audible clicks in Kurt's mind, as thoughts piece together and all come to the same conclusion that trying to hide something from Santana and trying to evade questions with the 'I'm fine' that only she could ever decipher will never work. A narrowing of eyes, Santana seemingly trying to read the younger boy's mind or something to that effect, then –

"Did you know Blaine lives here?"

She frowns. This was about Frodo Baggins? Mentally, she's calculating cost of gas and how long it will take to drive to wherever he lives tomorrow and kick the boy's ass without missing the reservations she made at Eleven Madison Park. Maths has never been her strong point. She only realises after a few minutes hesitation that Kurt is still waiting for an answer, beginning to fidget nervously.

"Wasn't he in California?"

"Yeah. He _was_. And now he lives _here_. And naturally my good luck made me run right _into_ him. Literally."

"What'd he do? You know Brittany and I can so –"

"Nothing. He – we just… met. For coffee. That's, um, that's all. I swear." Santana levels her gaze with him, keeps it for several seconds. "Fine, okay, we met twice and got kind of… well, drunk. And, uh, well, you can imagine what happened – no Brittany, you don't _actually_ have to imagine it", because Brittany looks like she was about to relate to the entire table just what her mind is painting right now and Kurt is beginning to squirm into his seat, wondering if he can wear away the chair's legs quick enough to disappear out of sight underneath the table.

Silently, he thanks god Santana didn't end up with Puck and so spares him the jock slapping him on the back with a triumphant "Get it, Kurt!", because that would just manage to mortify him even more. Although the thought of it already does a pretty good job of it.

"Look" he goes on, cutting of Santana mid-thought before any kind of comment is made, "I just want to forget about it, okay? It happened, it's over. He left me once; I'm not going to go through that again and I just… I just want to forget it and move on. We're seeing Wicked tonight, though? That's exciting!"

The tanned girl raises her eyebrows at him, clamping her lips shut theatrically to let him know how little she approves of his 'forget and move on' theory. It never worked before, after all.

"But Kurt, you guys are like – soul mates!"

And no matter how easy it is to tell Santana to shut up, with Brittany, it's just not fair to do that. "No, sweetie. We really weren't." Santana touches Brittany's arm lightly, shakes her head at the blonde, tells her silently to let it go, for now. Kurt's eyes wander to the floor, the chewing-gum covered pavement and he tries to count the grains of grey shades on the floor, anything to take his mind of this topic.

Because soul mates? Yes, he's thought that before. The way he and Blaine seemed to know what the other was thinking, the way they found themselves guessing surprises and ending up in the same places out of coincident. Simply because their minds had seemingly aligned in some twisted shape rivalling the complexity of finding the Orion constellation.

* * *

><p><em><span>November 2011<span>_

_There's young, glittery snow on the tarmac. With a white sheet of innocence, it covers the streets of Ohio, for once, takes away the grey from McKinley, shows it to the world as though it were trying to appeal; a sheen of beauty glowing on a building that emanates fear. But with no students, with everyone gone for Thanksgiving weekend, it's almost possible to believe that this place is filled purely with laughter outside of lessons._

_Dalton, with its dark grey towers and deep wooden furniture, simply glows in the weather. _Hogwarts_, Kurt can't help but think_, would look like this in the winter_, because so far, Finn will never go a weekend without comparing the two and Kurt wants to tell him that no, Dalton is better. Because even in Hogwarts, there are divisions, rivalries. _

_And Blaine will forever make sure he can keep Kurt's opinion. _

_He hides, from his boyfriend, the side of Dalton that announces its snide and proud attitude. The amused laugh gets stuck in his throat like a dry lump of uncomfortable feelings, whenever he sees Kurt and Finn talk about 'perfect Dalton', 'amazing, unbeatable Dalton'. Because every school has its hierarchy, its food chain. Even one with a zero-tolerance policy._

_But the light that shines in Kurt's eyes, makes them seem almost translucent with joy, it makes Blaine almost ferocious with protection. He is aware, impassively, that he won't be able to keep Kurt away from any trouble at Dalton forever. But until the inevitable happens, he will bask in the happiness that seems to surround the countertenor. Because after everything, who is he to deny Kurt even the smallest happiness?_

_The heat seeps through their jackets slowly, takes away the numbing cold from outside and replaces it with a feeling of warmth and home. The radio plays soft tunes, songs Blaine used to listen to, forcing his parents to play in the car until his sixteenth birthday, when the cassette had been wrapped up nicely and immediately found a home in his own car. Songs Kurt recognises, from countless CDs he owns, compiled in a beautiful collection of moving songs that tempt him to start belting them out._

_Burt Hummel greets them warmly, Carole invites them in after five minutes of animated talking on Kurt and his father's side, because there is hot chocolate and they must be cold. Blaine barely notices. His hand, behind the parents' backs, finds Kurt's hand, entwines their fingers softly and tucks them into his jacket pocket for warmth. He takes in the sight of trampled snow outside; evident left overs of a snowball fight and a forgotten glove, black marring the otherwise white canvas and he thinks back to his own home. The way the snow would lay, pristine, untouched. The way he would be told off for even going close to any kind of activity involving snow being thrown, the way his friends were instantly discouraged from 'frolicking' or 'jumping around' in that 'horrible slush'._

_It's midnight when both boys find themselves awake and Blaine smiles dazedly at Kurt from the mattress on the floor until a pair of eyes meet his. It's ten minutes past midnight when Finn hops down the stairs in quiet exhilaration to tell them that it's snowing. It's half past midnight when all three boys quietly creep out the front door, the floor creaking silently and a soft smile appears on Carole's lips as she wakes, her light sleep interrupted, and walks to the window to see her sons and Blaine with their faces upturned to greet the cascading snowflakes._

_When Blaine's coat glistens, wet with melting snow and white dots, he spots a white mandala, so perfectly preserved he excitedly tugs on Kurt's sleeve to show him. It's a quarter to one, when they are both so covered in snow that any more really won't matter, they lie down on the white bed, watching Finn dance around catching snowflakes with his tongue happily. In the deepening, fresh snow, Blaine and Kurt make snow angels, and when they see them from above, the figures are holding hands._

_Kurt wakes up after Blaine in the morning, to a piece of chocolate, wrapped in heart-shaped foil and a note, Blaine's messy handwriting almost a maze imprinted on the white sheet and in Kurt's bleary eyes, it's only a sea of white and blue blurs at first._

Had to go out quickly

I'll be back soon.

Love you

_And the younger boy outlines the words lazily with his index finger, tracing the '_Love You_' and admiring the ease with which it is professed, how far the two have come._

_It takes his mind off the highlighted date on his calendar. Because of course his mother's birthday had to fall on Thanksgiving weekend. Kurt and his father have made it a yearly tradition to go to the cemetery ever since Kurt asked his dad if they could visit Momma, on the first thanksgiving after she passed away. It comforted him, in a way, being with her. Even if the closest he could be to her was there. He found a surprising amount of peace among the shallow graves protruding at awkward angles from the soil._

_It's a few hours until his father wakes up. The clock on his nightstand shines a reflection of a six and three zeros onto the ceiling and Kurt wonders where on earth Blaine had to go this early. But the sudden on storm of memories moves him away from the bed and the hours of sleep he will miss out on, walks him to his vanity table and fixes his face._

_Somewhere, in the far right of his wardrobe, he finds a black dress shirt and a pair of black skinny jeans. For once, in a year, he doesn't scoff at the monotony of colour or absence thereof. He simply reaches for his warmest coat and grabs his keys._

_The air outside is cold, the thermos of coffee he holds almost like a precious treasure, helps a little. His car, thank god, is devoid of snow and he backs it out of the snow ridden driveway and into the ploughed street, the engine rumbling soothingly as the tires roll over remnants of melting ice and snow resembling a certain beverage that is so far removed from his mind by now, he barely flinches at the thought of it._

_His fingertips tap the wheel in an unknown rhythm. The radio, at this time, only has news. And Kurt leaves reading the newspaper and generally being informed about the country and the world's on goings to Blaine. _

_Driving by buildings, he observes the outside, the still falling snow, lazy snowflakes drifting to the floor, early risers taking out the trash or making elaborate thanksgiving breakfasts. It only takes ten minutes until tall, gothic architecture punctuates its presence with a small stab to Kurt's mind. He will come back with his dad and Blaine and Carole and Finn later. Right now, he just wants to visit her alone._

_As always, the path to the familiar place is indented in his mind. His feet take him there easily, automatically. Except today, they tread into already established footsteps, fading steadily but slowly, in new falling snow, that lead all the way through the maze of grey and white to the one place where every few months, he or Burt will place flowers again. _

_When he spots a figure kneeling, Kurt immediately gets that feeling of familiarity. He recognises the un-sculpted hair, the soft curls that surround a handsome face. He recognises the coat that Blaine will drape over Kurt's shoulders on countless dates where Kurt forgot his jacket. In a snap decision of curiosity and confusion, the younger boy walks away, stands behind a nearby tree, close enough to hear Blaine's voice drifting through the soft waves of air that brush past them._

_"Hey Mrs Hummel. You don't know me. But from what Kurt tells me about you, I really, really wish I did. He talks about you a lot. About how kind you always were, how understanding. How – how he sometimes can't help but wonder what your reaction to him now would be. If you'd be proud. You would be, I'm sure. Kurt – he's amazing. I didn't have the fortune to know him back when he was younger, but even in the few months I've known him, he's… grown. So, so much."_

_Kurt's breath halts almost completely as he watches the figure talk, unaware of his boyfriend, right behind him. He doesn't remember mentioning the cemetery his mother was buried in to Blaine more than maybe once. And that definitely not recently._

_"With everything he tells me, I guess I – felt like I should come here. I didn't want to ask Kurt to take me. It's his world, his memories. Forcing them on him for myself wouldn't be right. So here I am. I just want to say that… I love your son. More than anything. I don't think I've ever met a braver, more amazing person than him. And Burt really is an amazing father. If Kurt hadn't come to Dalton that one day to spy on us, I probably would have spent another two years blending in. Just… living in a synchronised movement. And then he comes along and just – just changes it completely with as little as an introduction. I think I fell in love with him as soon as I saw how proudly he held himself, how steadily he spoke about his school and everything. Although it took my thick mind several months and severe prodding from friends to realise it."_

_Blaine halts, for just a second. His eyes close to send a tear on its way down his cheek. It doesn't feel weird, talking like this, he realises. The way Kurt talks about his mother, it makes her seem so alive that Blaine can't help but reciprocate that feeling now. _

_"You know it's strange. He's been in my life for six months now. Six months of seventeen years. And yet I – I already can't remember what my life was like before he came into the picture."_

_A small flicker of pink catches his eyes and Blaine stands, steps back to reveal a single Chrysanthemum. _

_"I know Kurt doesn't believe in God or religion and I didn't grow up with religion either. But I still believe and hope that you're watching over him. He, of all people I know, deserves the best life possible. And if he lets me, I want to be part of that. I will do my best to protect him and let him know every day how amazing he is, that, I will promise you."_

_The two boys stand, several feet apart, within the gentle snowdrift. In the silence, they hear their hearts, moving in perfect synchrony to each other, allowing Kurt to slip behind the tree unnoticed. He feels something tickle his cheek. When he reaches up his finger to brush it, it comes away harbouring a tear._

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><p><strong>TBC.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I suck, I know D= School and life stressing me out, etc, but enough excuses. Here's the next chapter, hope you like it and hopefully updates will be quicker again =D

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p><em><span>September 2022<span>_

"San, is Kurt okay? He hasn't spoken in a while…" Brittany's voice pierces the veil between unconscious thoughts and reality and "Kurt!" Santana says, snaps her fingers in front of him impatiently, trying to veer his attention from whatever thought cohabits with it at the moment.

"Hm?" Kurt mutters, shakes his head, blinks a few times to refocus on the two girls before him. "Oh sorry, I was just… never mind. What's new with you guys? And the others? How's Quinn doing, and Artie?"

Last he's heard, Rachel and Finn went off to Chicago for a few weeks, something to do with Finn wanting to open another shop up there. Tina and Mike travel, mostly, as far as he knows. Postcards from all over the world with friendly greetings and _You should really come visit this place sometime! _cover the walls back in his apartment.

"The only reason," Santana warns, finger still poised mid-air, almost threateningly, "You're getting away with this is 'cause I wanna talk about that, but this conversation is far from over And I don't care if I have to go all Schuester on you and make you sing a medley of showtunes to express your emotions." At the last words, the girl almost shudders. To Kurt, that idea seems pretty good.

"Quinn's real estate business is doing well and Damien is as boring as ever, remind me why the hell she married him?"

"College" Kurt says faux-sombrely in-between sips of coffee, "It does strange things to you. Like convince you to think someone like _that_ is good-looking. How's Artie?"

"He's okay" It's Brittany that answers. Sweet, cautious Brittany who still feels bad for breaking up with him, will always invite him to visit her and Santana, call him and ask how he is on a weekly basis. And surprisingly, Santana doesn't seem to mind and Kurt can't help but marvel at how much they all grew up, how they all changed so much in the last years. "He's really enjoying being a Kindergarten teacher."

"Sam still ends every one of his sentences with 'I don't know what I would have done if Burt hadn't got me this job', and I assume you know he's managing the store now. Puck's… Puck. Scouring colleges for jailbait, you know. The usual." There is almost distain in her voice, a tone of exasperation at the mention of Puck's life. It surprises Kurt. "And of course, you'll know about Mercedes."

Mercedes was turning into the remarkable young woman Kurt had always predicted her to be. He had met her boyfriend, Nate, once. The way she had – accidentally it had to be said – wrapped him around her little finger, was almost to be congratulated. She had got a stable job as a PA in some firm and was perfectly happy with it, singing in choirs and church on Sundays.

"So what about you? Still the same?"

"Always." Kurt answers, his smile lost somewhere in a sigh.

"I don't get it." Santana frowns at him, "I never thought you of all people – "

"Drop it, Santana. Please just… let's talk about something else."

She complies, raises her eyebrows, but moves on nevertheless. Her fingers trace the prominent lines in Brittany's palm and there is such ease in the motion again, that it makes Kurt smile. After all this time, he can still remember the party, the way Santana hit him, light-heartedly but hard enough to tell him to shut up, when he voiced that she looked jealous of Artie and Brittany, not aware of what secret he was unearthing that she was trying to suppress until she stormed out of the house and he followed, asked her what's wrong and she broke down, told him everything and begged him not to tell anyone else. Her attitude toward Blaine changed somewhat significantly that night, when Kurt told her that it was going to be embarrassing admitting to his boyfriend that Blaine had been right all along.

* * *

><p>Lunch has, since he started working here, become a rather optional meal. He went when he was hungry or, well, bored. And right now, the chrome designs offered him a sanctuary the streets of Manhattan didn't. He hoped so, at least. It was almost insultingly amusing how often he forgot that Kate did, after all, know where he worked and how good friends she was with his secretary.<p>

"_Um, Mr Anderson, you have a visito –"_

"No. I'm busy! She can't – "

There is a slight click and the door falls open, a smirk gracing Kate's face as she holds out a cup of coffee, almost as a peace offering.

"I'm taking you out to lunch." Kate states simply, shrugging at his questioning expression as though it were obvious, as though – "We haven't made plans, have we? Because I, uh, I have work. Lots of work." Blaine shuffles, shuts his planner to hide the absence of appointments.

"Oh I'm sure. Which is why I bring nourishment."

It's one of the more frustrating parts about Kate. Somehow, Blaine is sure he won't get away with silence again and it frustrates him. He doesn't want to think about Kurt, doesn't want to have to deal with the tormenting emotions any notion of the younger boy brings. But Kate has already connected enough dots to make out the logistics of Kurt and Blaine's relationship. "Look Blaine", her voice takes on a softer edge, careful, treading the soft line where she knew Blaine would shut her out again, walk by her and refuse to talk to her. "You really don't look well. I mean you didn't fix your hair this morning at all and you didn't even attempt to use foundation on the circles under your eyes. Just talk to me, okay? I won't pry, I promise, but just tell me what's wrong. Come on, coffee and take-away lunch on me."

The offer brings a soft smile to his face, softens his tired expression and gives him an air of dreaminess, his eyes half-lidded, and he nods, lets Kate take his jacket and walks out of the office, making sure to glare half-heartedly at his secretary.

"And don't blame Stacy for letting me in. It's just not that easy to withstand my incredible charm" Kate smirks, winking at him lightly as she drags him out of the office. He almost inhales the coffee she hands him outside, ignores the scorching feeling on his tongue, relishes the caffeine running through him.

They stop at Subway's for lunch. Somehow, Blaine forgets that the sub he orders burnt his tongue last time and orders it anyway. Then again, somehow his appetite has waned, replaced by a slight sick feeling at the prospect of reliving the past. Because the whole therapy idea, the entire ingenuity of talking making things better never did work for him. All it did was bring more pain, more resolute, vivid images to his mind.

He pulls Kate outside before she can protest; bring up her PE grades or some other excuse for them to sit still, because he knows that talking will make him fidgety. And when it comes down to it, he really does have some work to get on with afterwards.

"Now spill. Who is he?"

"His name's Kurt." It falls from his lips easily, simple and yet heavily laced with something Kate can't discern. She falls into step with him, follows his quickening strides over the bright pavement. "We met when I was in junior year and became friends, went out and broke up. Now we've met again and nothing. That was it. There is nix, nada, niente to get worked up over." Because in the end, it's easier to try and dismiss the topic again, hope Kate will get the hint and stop prying. Blaine takes a bite from the sandwich, winces at the sharp taste that intrudes on the calm with a spiciness that burns his throat and forces him to gulp back half the coffee he bought.

"Geez! Don't be _quite_ so unequivocal. I can hardly breathe." The response is filled with infuriating sarcasm and conviction that more information will come thereafter.

"Shut up." avoidance is his shell, his protection against people knowing too much and trying to get through to him. He doesn't need the weight of past emotions weighing him down.

"No, honestly. With the clearness of what you mean it's hardly possible for me not to comprehend every single thing about your entire life."

"You know, there's such a thing as _overdone_ sarcasm." Blaine snaps, turning to Kate and stopping in the middle of the street. Ha barely hears the grumbled comment of the woman who bumps into the pair, running past in annoyed hurry. "What do you want me to say? He's the Rachel to my Ross? The Joanie to my Chachi?"

"No. Neither can live up to the love of hair gel you seem to harbour. Try he's the bond girl to your Sean Connery."

"Okay, I am neither a player, nor is he likely to step out of the ocean in a bikini, for all the outrageous things he wears. Comparing this to a guy who spends no two nights in the same bed, let alone with the same girl is low." It was never like that with Kurt. They had had each other and only wanted each other. Blaine had never had a problem with Kurt's wariness of anything beyond kissing, never any issues with taking it slow. They had somehow kept sparks flying time and time again. The perfect adolescent relationship, and adolescent, was the key word.

"The Miss Moneypenny to your James Bond, then? After all, they get together in the end, don't they?"

The phrase stutters in Blaine's chest. _Don't they get together in the end ? _and suddenly it's twelve years ago, Valentine's day in a crowded coffee shop and Blaine tracing the soft wrinkles at the corner of Kurt's eyes when he smiles, with his glance. "Let's go with he's the Sally to my Harry." He murmurs, suppressing the feeling that rises in his chest.

"I don't see the parallels, but for that dreamy, vacant stare you're giving that tree I'll say okay then."

They stay silent. Find a bench and sit, watching the cars and people, the way the entire world seems to be at a hurry with only them taking their time, at their leisure to remain calm, take a break inside a bubble of tranquillity in the middle of Manhattan, New York.

"He broke my heart."

The sentence is uttered with care. With the timid treading of unfound territory and the fear the knowledge will be lost inside the wind that sweeps away most of the volume of his voice, reaching the ears of all Blaine wants to fool into thinking he is brave.

"We were happy and – and on my last day he… broke up with me. When I asked why, he walked off and all I remembered for ten years was watching his figure retreat, thinking _I hope I never have to see him again_, because it would break my heart. And now look at me. I can't even _sleep_ since I saw him two days ago."

And with that, Kate leaves it be. Reaches down in her coat pocket and retrieves a tissue, dabs away the bubble of water rolling down Blaine's cheek, shifts upright the drooping cup of coffee in his hands as he surveys the ground, the few spots of green grass peeking out from beside the planted tree in the patch of brown soil in the middle of a sidewalk.

* * *

><p>As usual, the performance makes Kurt cry. By the end of Defying Gravity, Santana is considering sneaking out and insisting that no, she has no idea who the guy with the high voice, sobbing and singing along to every single song is. And by the end of For Good, she has explained the plot to Brittany so many times that it has lost all meaning to her.<p>

But good-natured as always, she resists only a little when Kurt offers to buy them all T-shirts, because it's Wicked and it was, in his opinion, compulsory buy accessories, no matter whether or not he already owns several copies of them.

"I really don't think this is… me" Santana voices as they make their way out of the theatre into the grand foyer.

"What are you on about? Of course it is! You could just cut off the bottom – "

" – And wear it as a crop top!" Brittany finishes because Kurt's voice trailed off, a bright smile on her face as the boy freezes, looks to the entrance and stops, eyes searching for another exit. Brittany is the first to notice the way his fingers curl together tightly in a way that she knows from experience, causes pain from nails digging into the palm of his hand. And with Kurt's perfectly manicured nails' length, that is likely to happen.

"Kurt?" Her lowered voice catches the attention of her girlfriend, who follows the opposite of Kurt's gaze, finds the spot of discomfort in a mop of unruly curls and a flannel shirt that, on him, somehow makes the look okay again, rather than out-dated , more Karen Gillan a la the fifth Doctor Who series rather than the style of the old, cheesy Westerns.

"Meeting someone?" An eyebrow arches, disappears into the low hanging fringe of the Hispanic girl as she looks at him earnestly, not a trace of a smirk and he replies "Not in a million lifetimes", before stalking off into the opposite direction for as long as it takes for Santana's hair to trail softly in the breeze slipping in through reopened front doors, as she shakes her head slightly and follows him, loops her arms around his shoulder and tears him back to the room's centre. "So help me, you are _not_ letting your prep boy just _sit_ there and you _know_ Brittany is gonna ask _me_ for an explanation of what is going on with you for the _whole_ ride home and even with a million 'I don't know''s, she's not gonna let it go, so what's up Hummel? Spill." There's a dangerous tilt to her voice, fierce emphasis on words that evoke the clarity of their meaning and of course her use of his last name and, as though to further her point, Brittany aptly asks "What's going on?" in that sweet, innocent voice of hers that begs for an answer like a small puppy, large, saucer-like eyes looming at him, questioning him in a way he can't answer with silence.

The catty response, accentuated fittingly with the word _Lopez_, sticks in his throat like a dry breath, inhaled in a desert, because all the moisture seems focused on his eyes, where it wells up into a glasz water bubble that falls gently down his cheek and onto the red carpet. "I can't." he whispers, wipes his cheek on the cuff that's already rumpled from him gripping it before. "He – He broke my heart once. If I go out there – I don't want him to do it again."

Despite all his trepidations, Santana understands. She _understands_ heartbreak and loss, the sinking feeling in one's chest at the end of a blossoming love. The way it _feels_ to let someone go. She was lucky with Brittany, was lucky that in the end, it was her the blonde chose, her the blonde boarded that one-way plane to New York with, never to look back. What Santana always failed to understand is how perfection can break apart. Like trailing the way a castle seems to crumble within itself over time, every perfectly fitted stone slowly decaying, it seems unreal.

She watched Kurt and Blaine together. Never consciously, never obviously. She watched them from afar, the way touches would linger for that extra second that seemed to tell stories of past brushes of fingertips, the way they would sneak in soft, quick kisses – almost pecks, but too intimate to be discredited as that – when they thought no one was looking, when they felt safe.

It _was_ love. What had shone in their eyes then, and what dwells in Blaine's hunched over, tense shoulders and Kurt's fingertips now. _Tribulations of love_, she thinks, _neither one is willing to take credit for_, then shakes herself because _woah_, deep thinking is not usually something she takes pride in doing.

"You can't just leave the boy there. Knowing Blaine, he _will_ spend the entire night waiting." Even with reluctance to admit so, Kurt knows she's right. _Hates_ that she's right.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC.<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** -.- All these distractions… I am so sorry for the delay – again – and I swear I'm trying to keep to regular posting XD Anyways, enjoy, review, let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

The streets of Manhattan are growing colder again. September announces its age with every gust of wind that brings forth a promise of an early winter and cold misery. Blaine feels foolish, suddenly, that he's changed, considers running back to the apartment and changing back into his work clothes again. He hears, from the distant, sound-cut-off walls, the finishing notes to Defying Gravity, knows it's too late and that he might miss Kurt if he walks now. And after this, he will be at a dead-end to finding the younger boy.

With a resolute shiver, the boy wraps his arms around his torso, his fingers digging into his sides. He's not entirely sure whether as cause of the cold or the tight grasp he prevails on the spark of hope that remains, after everything else, still.

There's cold air in the loose curls of his hair, in-between the cracks his arms and hands can't cover, sliding up the small fold in his pant legs that give way to skin covered in goose bumps. When he feels pressure on his shoulder, his body jerks, surprised at contact, to bring him face to face with dark, smooth skin and eyes of a chocolaty brown he remembers from high school, from the first time he met David, crouching away from his jock stature, the football jacket until the boy looked at him like this – kindly, apologetically.

"Um, sir?" she says, and his fingers brush coarse paper, a mixture of green and black, torn away from the corner of a programme, "Your… friend. He asked me to give you this."

_Friend_. It shouldn't make Blaine's heart beat rapidly, speed up to the point where the breath in his lungs suddenly seems so insignificant and yet is all he can hope to capture between his lips, which seem suctioned together, holding back the emotions. When he opens the fold in the torn paper, his eyes gloss over leftover bits of ending sentences and they linger on the –_ays_ and _–cclaim_, find the handwriting only once the novelty of cut off words for the sake of prolonging dread's arrival has passed.

When his mind registers the traced lines of dark ink telling him _I'm sorry. I can't do this again_, Blaine leans back against the cold wall of the building, lets out white puffs of a long-forgotten breath.

This was it. This was his last lead. There hadn't been any clue as to where Kurt was planning on going tomorrow or after that. On his walk home, Blaine kicks up dust and bits of broken glass bottles that litter the concrete floor. Over and over, when he tries to make peace with the knowledge that he has to let go of Kurt, his mind fails him, conjures up that one face, the icy sea green stare, the delicate curve of Kurt's lips as they form an O-shape upon recognising the figure before him. It isn't fair. Just like every sentiment of 'life isn't fair' that he used to brush aside like stray strands of Kurt's hair that fell on his face, it comes back to him.

In the ten years that have passed, he had somehow learnt to hope that maybe he could forget the boy, or at least get over him. He'd tried. And maybe one-night stands and blind dates hadn't been the right way to go about doing so, but he had _tried_.

He learns that night that somehow, this connection between them will exist beyond state lines and college rivalries. He learns that praying, in the end, does pay off. It took ten years for whatever higher power there was to receive his message. The utterance of _I hope we'll never part_, that Blaine whispered into crisp, morning air, his hands trailing through the light brown hair that shone dimly in the early light. He learns, that despite his convictions, it only takes a small pull from the younger boy, the quiver of his bottom lip, the sight of his pale skin and how it contrasted against his own, California tan against a sun-shy tint, to pull him back in, transform him back into a desperate seventeen year old, searching for acceptance, for camaraderie, for love.

He let go once. And now, ten years later, he grasps that small, returning strand of the past and tugs at it, ignores blindly the way it might fray the fabric, pull loose the weaving of a thousand days of attempts to forget. He can't let go again.

Somehow, Blaine falls asleep on his laptop. It brings reminiscing of late nights back at Stanford and typing out decrepit letters into an already non-sensical essay due the next day. Where his index finger rests on the 'c', the nail dips it in, forms a long, monotonous document. If anyone ever queries how many letters could be typed during sleep, he will sheepishly mutter a number under his breath, remember the constant of a c after the beginning of what he had hoped would somehow turn into a semblance of a letter. Where he rested the keyboard, it digs into his hipbones, leans against his drawn up knees.

He's woken up to the glaring of a blurry screen before. He's familiar with the backspace button by now; the small arrow pointing to the left already shines more weakly than the rest of the keys. Amidst the sea of lines, the jumbled alphabet misses its K. He didn't expect it to last long under the strain of a calloused fingertip drawing circular motions over it in the death of never ending clicks during a sudden burst of inspiration.

Kurt wakes up in a bed that isn't his own, and he can't help but realise: He wants to go home. The more organised part of his mind finds the New York checklist and strikes out Wicked, meeting up with Santana and Brittany and wandering the streets of Manhattan. The more organised part of his mind makes a pro and con list, weighs the options heavily influenced by the words _Blaine_ and _money _(and strangely enough he is surprisingly thankful that his stay ends tomorrow). It's an unusual contrast to warm summer days of 2011, when those two words coalesced, meant nothing in the world was wrong. He had had the perfect boyfriend who loved to spoil the living daylight out of Kurt simply because he could.

His pride took vacations on those days, allowed the boy to simply blush under terms of endearment and Blaine kissing his moving lips to sway Kurt's protests of wanting to pay himself.

He rearranges his thoughts. Lima is far away, and with it, the past is left behind. Sometimes, Kurt allows himself to resent his dad and Carole for never making it out of there, for forcing Kurt to come back for Christmas and every other holiday they can. Sometimes, he likes to pretend, tell the people there that he made it big once out of school, and all thanks to Dalton. He hones his ability to act, revels in the fact that small town Ohio doesn't read the newspapers, tells them if they read the right ones, they would see him on every cover. Sometimes he likes Lima for the pure fact that it allows him to dream a little again.

Kurt still talks to Finn. After much prodding and several reprimands of the use of the word dude from Kurt, he gives in and creates an msn account with the fitting e-mail of . They speak in smiley faces and text speech. Home or jobs never get mentioned. Finn doesn't ask if Kurt's found anyone yet or if he's developing another crush on someone, respects that thin line that gives leeway for Kurt to click _Block this person_. Kurt doesn't ask how Rachel is, how her Broadway dreams are coming on and what roles she is currently auditioning for.

Because while Kurt still talks to Finn, they keep it minimised. Never stray from the narrow path that has become their comfort zone. At family dinners or meetings, they mostly keep to themselves, Finn armed with his cell phone and a million small vibrations that announce yet another worrying message from Rachel. Kurt armed with a book and the trademark snide comment _While I rest assured Finn and Rachel's text messaging could instigate a most marvellously entertaining novel, I prefer to dig into Ayn Rand, rather than involve myself in such nefariously literary abandon as texting. _When Finn starts giggling at the word 'dig', Kurt punches him lightly and whispers _She's a woman, Finn. I wouldn't even go there in my dreams, drunk on the absinth you still have, smuggled up in your room._ And that's that. The joke is made, the lines respected and for the rest of the evening it's silent.

It shouldn't have made him jump out of his skin to see a window pop up in the middle of his notebook, except that he wasn't even aware he was logged in and no one talks to him on msn anyway. Pulling the plastic box onto his lap, he narrowly avoids pointing out to Finn that even words as unworthy of mention as 'jock', have proper spelling.

_ says:_

_Santana tlod me._

_ says:_

_Wow. Finn. As always, your way with words blows me away!_

_ says:_

_Whatev. look dude. if you need me to com beat up blaine, im ttally ther._

_ says:_

_Oh? Are you going to chase his primary school spelling bee diploma to Timbuktu?_

_I will politely ignore your use of the word 'dude', by the way, as my mind is failing to enlighten me to the location of the block button._

_ says:_

_I dunno wht youre saying, but if youre insultng me, pls stop._

_ says:_

_Sorry. I'm a bit edgy._

_ says:_

_is it blaine? want me to com beat hm up?_

_ says:_

_Despite popular belief, my world does not actually revolve around him… I do have other problems, you know._

_ says:_

_o rght. k thn. gtg txt if he tris anythng_

The window closes. Leaves Finn in midst a crowd outside the theatre in Chicago, waiting for the stars to lend their precious time to autograph booklets, arms, tickets, where he waits for Rachel to come so they can go to that steak house he just found on the other side of the road. Leaves Kurt on a layer of sheets that smell of his sanitizer and the cheap perfume he covers it with as best as he can.

**TBC.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Right. I am utterly crap at the whole "I'll update more" thing. To be honest, last month was quite… bad for me. Stress, school and then I got a cold within about an hour that lasted all week so far… But here I am again, trying to get back on schedule with updating x.x Sorry for the wait, again!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p>They meet, this time, again in a setting they both have the right to consider dangerous territory by now. It speaks of first meetings, days off, fights, questions and later dates, surprise trips during class, halfway agreements during holidays, spills and the silent dread of ten years.<p>

He spots Blaine, sitting in the far corner of the room, his gaze impenetrable, fixed on Kurt, or rather the door Kurt just entered through. A sigh, disappointment, shock, sudden shyness, and Kurt moves, walks straight toward the counter and orders his coffee before going over to Blaine with halting, timid steps and the look in his eyes asks the question Kurt is too afraid to voice himself.

"Have I… somehow given off signs that earnt me a stalker?" Kurt says finally, exasperated.

"I prefer the term persistence –"

"Calling is persistent. _This_, Blaine, is stalking. Please just – just stop. Let me be. Because it's getting harder and harder to tell you to walk the hell away every time you show up. I don't even want to know how you knew I'd be here –"

"You were going out of your way to avoid me. This was the first place I knew I'd find you at." Because they know each other. Because Blaine has long since mapped out Kurt's thought process, the way his mind worked and how things happened to him just the way he intended them to.

It takes a while for Kurt to sit. The conviction on Blaine's face, telling him he has no intention of leaving. In the end, the younger boy perches on the corner of the doughy, leather seat. Ready to pounce, to run again at the slightest feel of discomfort knotting in his chest. It makes him think.

"I always was good at running away, wasn't I." Kurt ignores the disapproving expression that comes over Blaine, "First McKinley, then us. And now, it seems my art has failed me."

"Kurt" Blaine is breathing heavily, the mention of McKinley and the stories and he suddenly tastes the bile in his throat, a dull, aching anger taking over and the urge to find a certain jock and punch his lights out.

"Never, _ever_ say that coming to Dalton was running away. You needed to be safe. And if you had gone back to that, I-I don't think I could have faced a _day_ not knowing if you were safe, if you-if you were being threatened or slushied or just _scared_. You did _not_ run away from there out of cowardice, Kurt." But all the words do is bring a wry smile to the younger boy's lips.

"He's a state governor now."

"What?"

"Karofsky. I-I met him. Couple of weeks back. We, um, we talked."

The sharp intake of breath tells Kurt not to discuss it any further. It hadn't been pleasant, but it had been civil. A guarded exchange of words, the careful calculation of distance between him and the suited man, a web of excuses, reasons to leave, tingling on the tip of his tongue, waiting to fall over his lips and open the door to his back leaning against cold granite, breathing heavily, in sync with a fluttering heartbeat that marvels at the dryness of his skin, the absence of sickly sweet corn syrup coating his hair.

"What happened to us, Kurt?" In their eyes, they trace the remnants of fear, of unanswered questions and want. "We used to be able to talk about anything. We only knew each other for a few hours and you called _me_, because you needed someone." Blaine hunts for the younger boy's eyes, trying to attain eye contact.

"I don't remember anything changing, Blaine. We were _always _like that. What happened was that back then, we were together. Right now, I feel more stalked by a desperate ex than anything else." Kurt lifts his eyes, lets cool watery-blue rush against Blaine like water to amber fire. And Blaine gives him nothing to yell at, nothing to be angry with in that collected, tranquil stare of his, the steadiness with which he breathes, offers no retaliation, no cause for a fight. It's a side Kurt always had difficulty with. His utter inability to provoke a fight that was, in retrospect, quite probably the stem of the nonexistence of fights in their relationship.

But something is different now. They both had time to grow up, to grow apart. And Blaine is seeing, for the first time, the faults in Kurt that he always allowed to dissolve in the background of his mind, never even wanted to admit. He had loved the countertenor for everything he had been. Everything he had not been remained unaddressed, unspoken of.

Back then, it had worked. Blaine easily lived with giving in after a short, mild-tempered fight at most, if there were topics that caused a hitch in the bold line their relationship developed into. With the line severed, his will to let Kurt have the constant upper hand had shattered.

"Kurt, you were the one who ended us. That was _you_, not-"

"Yeah? Well you didn't seem too broken up over that the next day, did you?" Kurt snaps. His jaw is set, a hard line accentuated by the glow of the coffee shop's lights.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Blaine asks him exasperatedly, his mind unable to conceive any memory that should have caused Kurt any pain, except…

"I saw you, you know. That night. With the guy, outside the bar. Who do you think called Wes as soon as you went _in_ there?"

"What? Kurt- god, that was nothing, he was just a friend, nothing happened, I-"

"Tell me."

A silence draws out before them as Kurt catches one lost, feeble breath after another, staring at the space behind Blaine's shoulder peevishly.

"Tell me you _didn't_ go to _that_ kind of club to find some sexual relief, Blaine. Because I'm sure as hell you didn't go there for the local cuisine." His voice is stern, tense.

Blaine just looks at him, expression unreadable and his mouth agape in a fashion that suggests his hunting for words too well to Kurt.

"You left, Kurt" he whispers, finally. Deep brown eyes fix on the floor for a second before his lashes lift up and his gaze meets Kurt's warily. "_You_ walked away."

He blinks, and Kurt is gone, footsteps resounding on the floor behind him, a single chime of a bell as the door closes, a rush of air that brushes against his skin, making it prickle and shiver slightly.

* * *

><p><em><span>May 2012<span>_

_Sometime after the fifth vodka shot, Blaine can feel his muscles relax slightly. He's already perched on the stool rather cautiously slumping, his brother's ID in one hand, a glass in the other. "Another" he mumbles to the bartender and the "Sweetie, you look like you've had enough – " only earns the man behind the counter a pensive, drowsy glare and some slurred response he can't exactly make out. But money is money, he thinks finally. And the boy definitely has enough of that._

"_I have a feeling I'm trying my luck in assuming a gorgeous thing like you is here alone, but I thought I'd take my chances."_

_It has to be just about the worst chat-up line in history, overtaken only by "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?", but Blaine is already too dazed to recognise the difference and he takes in more of the appearance of the guy that sidled onto the seat next to his than of the words he had actually spoken. If he were thinking objectively, it could have been argued that the guy was quite good looking. He was tall, a lot taller than Blaine, which didn't come as much of a surprise, and looked like a regular, calling the bartender by name and winking as he orders "another drink for our pretty little friend here…", causing Blaine to giggle inexorably and he thinks that if he squints, the guy's hair could almost be called chestnut brown._

_Things move almost infuriatingly quickly from there, because he knows that there is no way he just walked from the bar through the crowd and outside into the cool one am air, but the alcohol is doing funny things to him, he guesses, lets an almost dopey grin plaster his face and his head fall back ever so slightly as he feels a hand tug on his hand, away from the bouncer and the entrance. In the parking lot, he could have sworn, he spots a familiar car, but he shrugs it off. _

_At some point, the back of his head collides with grey concrete and it hurts, pierces through to his mind to bring the beginning of a mind-numbing headache and Blaine barely has a second to gasp before there's a pair of lips on his, muffling any sound, moving roughly against him and it's uncomfortable, frantic, an unknown taste and smell that invades Blaine's personal space and just serves to remind him of who this person isn't but somehow he can't do anything as the guy grasps his shirt, shoves him against the wall, roughly grabs his hair to allow his tongue better access to Blaine's mouth and god it feels wrong, but Blaine feels weak, so weak and out of it and – _

_Suddenly there's a shoulder, an arm draped around his waist and a shock of red stripes on black and the voice he knows from _somewhere_ but can't recall from where exactly, saying "I swear to god I'll call the cops on you! I swear to god!" but… it's not talking to him. Blaine's hazy vision registers the blurry canvas of a multi-coloured rag on the floor, heaving heavily as his saviour's foot kicks against it again and again until someone else arrives._

_Before he blacks out, he can vaguely hear the near-silent beep of phone buttons being pressed, the urgent insistent tone and then – nothing._

_When he opens his eyes, sees a seatbelt drawn over his chest and a glint, in the corner of his eye of that car again, a familiar face – _

"_You are such an _idiot_!" Wes says from his other side, clicks the seatbelt in securely and Blaine's vision is already going again with a mumble, a name._

* * *

><p><strong>TBC.<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Somewhat over a week, but I'm getting better, I think… XD Anyways, enjoy, review, tell me what you think =D

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

_September 2022_

Kurt finds a pattern in the streets of Manhattan. He always thought himself cut out to live in a city. Something in his relatively small stature, allowing him to slip by everyone almost unnoticed. Something in the way he can easily hail a cab or call someone out, because his ability to belt is one he has honed all his high school years. Until Dalton, of course.

His shoulder brushing against another brings forth a flinch, a mumbled apology and an instinctive feeling that tells him this is the time to run. But he doesn't. He's grown out of adolescent fears and trepidations and with Dalton, with the security, came a feeling of power. He learnt at McKinley that people would always hate him, that people would sometimes be out to get him and that he needed to find his true friends among the wreckage of faces tarnished by brutalities and truths their parents tried to hide from them for so long. With Dalton came the knowledge that for all the terrors, there was a world of acceptance. It showed him that he wasn't the only one and that there _was_ a community of safety even in the worst of places. He learnt to simply flicker his glance to slams and harsh words, to simply… walk away. He learnt that it wasn't fleeing. It was simply his right to happiness guiding him away from harm.

_For every shove you experience, there's a million kisses and hugs to shower you._

At the time it had seemed tacky, bordering on something that could have the potential to evolve into a tiring cliché. When Blaine had said it and placed a soft, lazy kiss on his forehead, Kurt had scoffed, rolled his eyes at the thought of _wow, my boyfriend is such a nerd_. Elton John's 'Can you feel the love tonight' blasting from the speakers of the laptop on which red writing was scrolling past from a movie they had watched so many times and barely paid attention to this time, the scent of coconut and hints of aftershave and the crinkled bed sheets they sat on, the pattern Kurt had traced while waiting for his blush to subside, to give way to his ability to come up with a witty response without shining eyes betraying the sarcasm.

He doesn't notice his feet plastered to one spot on the tarmac, he doesn't notice the way his fingers curl up, the way it makes his hotel keys dig into his palm until a sharp edge slips forward, makes him gasp slightly and he looks down, shakes his head and forgets. Walks away.

Kurt lets the gravity of another day weigh down on him. Ignoring the shrill beeps from his bedside table, he knows, is not something he can do for too long. Ten minutes after the noise begins, he slowly lets his tired body roll away from the bed. As he does so, it creaks slightly.

The cold water, from the shower nozzle inside the tiny bathroom, that washes over him jolts him more awake, his pulse speeding with the effort it takes to keep his body warmer. By the time he gets out into a far less misty atmosphere than he is used to from scalding showers that last an average of about thirty minutes, Kurt almost dares to say he is somewhat conscious of his surroundings.

The keyword, is _somewhat_, and it only takes ten minutes before he crashes back onto the creaking mattress with the firm belief that nothing can possibly dissuade him from another few hours of blissful sleep. The crackling noise of his phone, as it jumps vigorously on the bedside table again, a terribly canned version of Marry The Night, prove him wrong. His arm all but flaps outward, reaching for the small plastic device, fights the urge to fling it at the nearest wall.

"_How is it I hear about your 'boytoy' from Santana of all people?_"

"'Cedes. You have such a way with introductions –" Kurt mumbles tiredly, winces at the loud voice, the phone resting underneath his ear on the pillow in a horrible position that allows for maximum volume to sear through his eardrums as his best friend all but yells at him.

"_I ain't kidding! As your fabulous best friend I am meant to get dibs on these goods!_" A part of him misses the attitude. The ease with which he and Mercedes used to simply launch a conversation like a rocket and talk each other through it throughout the entire day, the excitement about it heightening continuously rather than droop after several minutes. They had grown apart. Over the years, there had been jobs, states, lifestyles and they collided in every single way, tearing at the small, carefully stitched seams of their friendship.

"There's neither anything _good_, nor is there anything to tell, Mercedes." Kurt sighs, wonders how long it will take to shake another enquiry off. Wonders how many more will take a meeting, a night, as a sign of forever.

"_Kurt –_"

"Look Mercedes, I'm tired and honestly, I just want to come home and forget any of this ever happened. New York was a mistake _filled_ with mistakes and I really just want to pack and leave. I'll see you soon, okay?"

He hangs up on her confused tone, on the regret in her voice, promising silently to forgive him later for the attitude. _It's nothing _personal he wants to say, reassure her, _Just anything but that subject again_. Seeing the half-ripped notice on the wall, Kurt sighs, lets his head drop for a second, leaves his suitcase half-packed. He barely remembers anything from the trip downstairs to the reception back up to his room. He only sees one object in a tunnel-like vision.

The receiver of the complimentary room phone is hovering, inches from his face and for the life of him he tries to compile a list of pros and cons, of why and when. It takes him fifteen minutes to crunch in the familiar numbers, stiffen at the _beep... beep… bee- _

"_Hello?_"

In the wake of his translucent glare, his coffee gets cold. When the waitress comes to see if he would like another, he brushes her off. Not rudely, oh no, never rudely. As he trained himself before Kurt, before love, before the sense of almost inebriating freedom and happiness, he taught himself again, with college, with pressure, with predestined purpose. He found his personality in self-help books again, then. In-between _Business: A Guide To Success_ and _The Way To Be: A New Approach To Battling Your Inner Demons_, he rekindles the perfectionistic all-rounder Dalton moulded him into with its conformity.

And as soon as Kurt reappears, it all becomes pointless exercise again and he scolds himself inwardly for not picking up _How To Face Up To People And Remain Calm and Collected In Their Presence_, because there's this slight hot patch just below his hairline on his neck, utterances left defencelessly hanging on his tongue and a shine to his eyes that betrays any hint of independence he prides himself of.

Back at home, he walks past Kate, refuses to look her straight in the eyes because it doesn't matter anymore. She knows something is wrong, she knows he doesn't want to talk about it. Breaching his privacy is something she excels in, but somehow, she gets the feeling she's done that enough lately.

A while later, he hears the soft notes of the Bangles _Be With You_ drift through the crack between his closed door and the wall and he wonders how long she will take to admit that her love for 80s music stems from countless reruns of the Gilmore Girls, not her own specified taste. Still, he finds himself mouthing along to the lyrics not long after, letting any subconscious meaning and all that could be read between the lines go over his head almost unnoticed. Enough so that it takes him Kate yelling to realise his phone is ringing loudly on the nightstand.

"Hello?" Mentally, Blaine puts Kate in charge of reminding him to check the caller ID before picking up as he flinches at harsh words flung at him without so much as an introduction – not that he needs a clue as to who the voice belongs to. It still sends shivers running over his back after so much time.

"_So I went back to the hotel_"

"Kurt"

"_I'm not a fucking charity case Blaine. Yeah, you're rich, I get it. Being a lawyer pays well, I know. You don't need to flaunt that. How dare you pay my hotel bills? Because I can't possibly scrape together the money? I was fine leaving tomorrow!_" Kurt's voice is building up to a crescendo and it's like every one of Hans Zimmer's compositions to Blaine. A sound he loves for all its sadness and emotion.

"I didn't do it because of that, I-"

"_Then why, Blaine? What possible reason other than feeling sorry for my broke ass could you have had to-_"

"Stay" Blaine states. Short and simple as he has not always been known to express himself and it brings, to Kurt, so many emotions with it, so many different meanings and why's and what do you mean's that he can't even formulate the right question to ask.

"Please Kurt. I messed up once, I know, but just… stay. A few more days. I want- I need to talk to you. We used to always be able to talk through our issues –"

"_This is different Blaine!_"

"How? Just tell me how this is any different from-"

"_Because it's us. And we'll always end up here, fighting, doing something unbelievably stupid and then trying to forget each other!_"

"Then let's not"

"_Not what?_"

"Forget."

"_Blaine –_ "

"Just hear me out. You've always been there Kurt. In every damn mocha in every coffee shop, every hallway of a hotel and every monument of New York. I've seen you in museums and in musicals, wandering the streets and giving impromptu performances. I could feel you tugging on my sleeve, begging me with that amazing expression to join in or to let you visit just one more shop and I could feel the weight of carrying your bags of innumerable shopping bags through the streets and not caring one bit because you were smiling." His breath is ragged, uneven, "you were everywhere. And no matter how much I tried, I could never hate you for it. Because even just remembering you was the most alive I have felt since graduation."

Blaine bites his lip, breathes through the silence in controlled huffs, slowing his heartrate as best as he can.

"_What do you want Blaine?"_ Kurt's tone is angry, laced with attempted detachment.

_I want you._ "Time. Give me five days. Nothing more. Give me just a little time to give you reasons to stay. And if you don't want to at the end, I promise I'll leave you alone. I – I won't call or… track you down or anything anymore. Ever."

Kurt breathes shallowly. As the seconds pass, words seem more and more heavy to him, weighing him down like concrete, unyielding of an answer. "_I need to be home tomorrow_." He whispers, his voice failing him as much as his legs are threatening him to.

He says, "_I'm sorry._" And then the line goes dead. The ghost of an unasked question lingers on Blaine's lips as he lets the constant _beep beep beep_ wash over his mind, swim in his thoughts and takes away some of the intense urge he has to hit himself. Behind his knees he feels the press of the mattress as he sinks down on it, lets the phone slip from his grasp onto the white sheets and cradles his head in his hands almost painfully.

**TBC.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** So this is slowly coming to a close… Not sure how many chapters are left, but I would like to thank everyone for the reviews and favouritings and alerts! It's meant a lot to have people like my stry enough to comment and it's definitely kept me going =D I hope any subsequent stories will be equally well received. This is a short-ish chapter, but the next one will be up very, very soon, I promise :)

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p>He's always liked the beach. Any beach. The waves, as they crash against rocks, as they scurry over sand and leave their imprint in small shells and seaweed stuck behind on the unusual texture. Although the exact memory evades him, he still remembers vestiges of tiny hands reaching out to grab the rigged half-moon shapes, and he fancies himself remembering a pearly laughter so very similar to his, a high, soft voice so soothing and unforgettable, if only for his inheritance of it.<p>

Parties, on the other hand, are something Kurt only attended a few times in High School and every now and then later, dragged there, mostly, by Mercedes or Santana or, occasionally Rachel and Finn.

But this one is at the beach. And it seems the perfect farewell to New York and all its tribulations because Kurt isn't too sure he wants to return. A small voice in his head scolds him for the pettiness of the reason. The city is large, huge. The chances of running into someone specific are slim. But he's taken a chance once and it failed him. The pain is not a constant he wants in his life if he can avoid it.

His fingers skim the surface of the rough speckles of brown. He marvels once again at the idea that somehow, they make up one of his favourite objects.

To his left, a small walk away, loud music booms into the night, preventing the closest inhabitants from their sleep even with earplugs in. Some techno crap Kurt has become a little too familiar with for his liking. One of those songs he could never sing along to, because the so-called 'singer' never held a note for very long before artificially induced static interrupted it several quick times in a row. Already drunken figures slur and sway along, dangerously close to the floor in some cases. Kurt watches them silently, spotting Santana and smiling momentarily at the way Brittany is restraining her from punching whoever had put a move on her girlfriend. He ignores the smaller figure shuffling through the throng of people as best as he could once he recognises the familiar curls, the stature, the guarded and somehow still leisurely way Blaine walks. He stops beside Kurt in silence, the only sound between the two of them shallow breaths and the rushing of the waves as they trickle across the sand.

It never ceases to amaze Blaine how Kurt incorporates so many emotions in one, fluid movement. He keeps his head held high, poised at an angle of less that ninety degrees that says _back off_ and _I know more comebacks than the amount of words you will learn in your turbulently tragic life that will end in an unhappy, heterosexual marriage to hide yourself and will ultimately lead to your wife finding out the hard way about a hot and heavy affair with the bakers man_, the exact words of which have stayed with Blaine ever since his mouth curved upward into a smile in response to Karofsky's expression to the comment. Kurt's eyes will always remain lowered, clandestinely looking into some faraway horizon. He hides his fear in that off-cast glance, bravely holds his stature by not allowing a single gaze to flicker to the object that scares him the most.

"How did you find me this time?"

"Like I said. I'm persistent." Blaine smiles for a split second, a simple twitch of his lip that he hopes adds humour to the phrase. "Well, I had help. Did you know there's 40 registered Mercedes Jones' in the phonebook for Florida?"

Kurt chokes a surprised laugh. "You – you went through 40 numbers to find me, relying on the pure faith that she might know where I was going to be tonight? Good lord you're lucky I still call her almost daily!"

"I really need to get a grip on not saying everything I think aloud, don't I…"

"Yeah, yeah you do." Kurt deadpans, but he's smiling, at least. Faint, but it's something, nevertheless.

"Well, I couldn't reach the right Mercedes in time anyway. I wasn't going to come. After everything, I thought my dad would not be pleased if I got a restraining order on my ass."

Kurt remains silent, purses his lips. His eyebrows furrow together half in a frown.

"But then I got a call at about three in the morning. Restricted number. A familiar voice telling me to keep my 'tan, pert behind' away from 'her boy', because if she ever heard him that distraught over _me_ again, she would 'whip' the aforementioned behind to Neverland and back, just to do it again. I never knew Mercedes was a Disney fan."

"Oh shit", Kurt says, buries his head in his hands. He registers the slight shift in gravity when his mind hits on an image reflected in Blaine's eyes as the older boy sits, glances at Kurt for a second, then casts his eyes over the waves. Silence in a bubble, excitement to their right. The smell of alcohol and fruit and seawater.

"Wow, I really am a stalker aren't I. That or it's pathetic at its worst." There's a tremor in Blaine's voice, one that reverberates almost perfectly with the crackling waves, one that makes Kurt's heart skip a beat and casts over him a sudden urge to wrap the older boy up in his arms and hold him like far too long ago. Instead, Kurt smiles at him, lets their eyes meet and feels, once again, that all too familiar sensation of drowning, in utter tranquillity.

"It's a bit endearing. Guess I'll never know how it is you have that effect on me, even after all this time." And he spots that look of pure, repressed mischief of ten years flare up in Blaine's eyes. A happy-cheeky expression he always reserved for Kurt; what had once been a warning for him to run and cover himself with a duvet lest Blaine reached him first and made use of Kurt's ticklish skin, much to the amusement and embarrassment of the other boarders.

"It's all in the eyes, baby" Blaine smirks, "Ten years can do nothing to diminish my irresistible charms-"

"Actually I was thinking more along the lines of the never-ending co-dependence between Sam and Frodo and their almost annoying ability not to stick to their promises and stay away from each other."

"You have no idea just how much more attractive the fact that you just made a Lord Of The Rings reference makes you right now. Who would be who then?"

"Oh you're definitely Sam. I've managed to keep my shape, but I have to say you've let yourself go a little my friend. Besides, I'm _much_ more susceptible to jewellery."

"Ah the allure of comfort food." Blaine deadpans. They are brought back into a semi-comfortable silence with each other so easily. Still unresolved issues rip apart the comfort just as easily.

And suddenly there's the memories. Flashes of embraces and kisses, remnants of the feeling of soft lips meeting a matching pair, whisperings of _I love you_ and of _I will never say goodbye to you_ that drift forgotten through the air around them. With them, they bring tears, tears of realisation. Because despite everything, they always stuck to their promises. In the end, they _are _in love. In the end, on that fateful day in late May rain, standing before the Dalton towers that rose behind them, they never did say goodbye.

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><p><strong>TBC.<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Well, we have finally reached the end! Honestly I thought there might still be another chapter, but here we go: The last installment of the series :D I hope you like it and thanks again for all the comments and everything! It really does mean a lot to me ^-^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for my minor OC just to help roll the storyline on a bit. The title comes from the song _At Your Door_ by _Alexi Murdoch_, and Glee and its characters belong to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

**Warnings: **Angst and swearing, but not too much.

* * *

><p>They weave parallels in the sand, between now and then. Glimpses of past and present that blend together in a myriad of utter beauty. And in them, they find shades of memories repressed and thought forgotten.<p>

"You know, I was a rep for the LGBT club at uni." Kurt says slowly, finally, deliberately.

Blaine watches him, remaining wistfully silent.

"There is that point when someone needs your help to accept the world or themselves. And it's your duty to tell them it'll get better and that even if some people will always hate you, you cannot let that get you down. So I did. I did it perfectly too. Told them all about how the most important thing was not to care what others thought about you. I literally sat there for two hours, _lying _through my teeth. Because honestly, I couldn't help but think that the most important thing that helped me accept myself was having someone to _share _it with."

For a moment, it's as if a small slither of the past slips through a rip in time and Blaine catches himself in the act of reaching out to take Kurt's hand. He wants, just once more if that's all he can hope for, to take the younger boy's hands in his own. He wants, again, to feel the security of having a fixed point in the universe that won't ever change,

"You saved my life." Blaine murmurs eventually, his eyelids flickering slightly under the weight and the relief at the admittance. "Literally. The day you came to Dalton. I mean, not in the over clichéd skipping of a heartbeat, love at first sight, drowning in those beautiful eyes, the colour of which I'm still trying to debate – that only came later…" he adds quickly, clarifies while he can, while the little alcohol he downed back at the bar is still rushing through his bloodstream like an imperceptible poison, infecting him with possibly too foolish bravery.

"I had never seen someone so shocked at something as simple as a handshake." Kurt takes into his sight the ocean and he blinks away a tear like it's nothing, feels a heaviness in the pit of his stomach because he doesn't want Blaine to notice the bead of glass that rolls into the dry sand. "It took _forever_ to get you out of your little, porcelain shell, but I've never regretted trying."

Again, like so often lately, Blaine feels his throat constrict in an almost morbidly elating way. He isn't ready to let tears flow freely yet. He blinks away the tears, he holds his breath for moments uncounted and lets the feeling wash over him and dissolve in the distraction of water droplets falling languidly besides his skin, onto it, creeping underneath it. Because it's the only way he feels able to talk anymore, Blaine closes his eyes and conjures himself somewhere else, makes his mental body reappear in his old dorm room in Dalton. The only place of complete peace he has always known. "Nothing ever hurt so much as not understanding why it had to end…" his voice catches on the last syllable painfully, the word in conjunction with Kurt that he omitted from his vocabulary ten years ago, to eradicate any potential cracks in an otherwise perfect veneer over a broken heart.

It's there again. A sharp pain pulsating through Kurt as he realises he bit his lip too hard, a harsh breath ignored for the purpose of being brought into nonexistence. Pain, pain, pain, and stabs of courage ignored, pushed away, leaving him at the last second before he tries to speak with them.

Water is falling more heavily on them now. Darkness forms on their shirts in circles ever expanding. Kurt's face stares at the sky. The rain takes the tears with it, clears Kurt's mind of absolutely everything so that he barely feels a feather light touch. When he does, and instinct kicks in, Blaine is ready. The soprano jerks away from the touch and bolts up. Practice has made his predispositions when it comes to Blaine flare up at the lightest of suggestions. He has to run, again, has to get away from pain, from promises only to be broken, from everything.

Moments like this are when Blaine realises how much he hates that Kurt is the better athlete. Blaine can keep the boy in sight as the rain falls harder and harder, but he has no hopes of catching up and when several young men stop him, step in front of him, tell him not to harass the poor boy he's running after, it only serves to separate the distance. It could never sever it. This is the one time when Blaine will not let Kurt get away with this. Before, the younger boy had needed space. Right now, Blaine needs the closeness. And Kurt, as much as he hates to admit it, needs it too.

"Kurt! Stop running away from me!"

They stop at opposite ends of the street in the rain and _wow _Blaine can't help but think, _this is a black and white movie cliché too overdone_, except that there's no kissing, no passionate embrace within the thundering torrents of rain. Their skin prickles with the cascading water droplets, they taste the moist air on their tongues. Cars screech by left and right, caught up in their chase for shelter and a cat skitters by in its panic to avoid her fur soaking. And all the while there is a hard conclusion to their facts.

It will always end like this. Poles in the rain, north and south. Paths will cross and divide again, only to interfold with each other at accidental intervals, as their lives unfold. Their unwritten story is one of unresolved meetings and the inevitable that will come to pass like the promised constant of yearly autumn. In the end, their fates and centripetal.

"I thought breaking up would mean closure. I didn't want a long-distance relationship because I was afraid, but breaking up just made it worse. I spent days on-end wondering 'Who's he with? Did he find someone? How long did it take him to find someone new?'

Because you _left_, Blaine! You went to the other side of the goddamn _country_ and you left me behind in Lima, freaking _Ohio_, while you went off partying and god knows what in California! You-"

"Here." A folded sheet catches Kurt's peripheral vision. Just hangs there, in the air, held up by nimble fingers that, minutes before, had been scrambling through the contents of the brown leather bag. And when Kurt moves to take the sheet, angry curiosity painted over his face, he feels the calloused fingertips that tell him Blaine hasn't given up the guitar. The touch brings up memories so vividly, he jumps slightly. They had always been feeble, repressed more and more easily over the years, but now, Kurt can't help but _remember_ those calloused fingers and the way they used to trace over his cheeks when Blaine kissed him softly, the way they could make him shudder violently when they caressed his chest and-

He shakes off the feeling, his breath coming in short, hollow bursts and his vision is still too blurred to make out the exact words he finds on the paper when he opens it.

"What is this?"

"My acceptance letter, from Columbia."

Kurt falters. His fingers curl around the paper to avoid letting it fall into the puddle that slowly forms from a bed of rain drops that may as well count as tears at the rate they flow from their reddening eyes. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"You didn't give me a reason why you were walking away from us. I thought that maybe I'd – that maybe you'd stopped loving me or-"

His lips stop shifting with the attempt to form words, move suddenly with a different purpose, instigated by the sudden rush of adrenaline, by Kurt's head snapping towards him and warmth flooding Blaine's body as strong hands frame his face and lips meet his in an almost urgent _need _to prove something_. _With it, it sets fibres into an intricate motion. Tiny, rusty mechanics begin to move again as he gives into the feeling, lets his tongue swipe over the soft, slightly chapped lips to moisten them, to bring their mouths closer and let them move together more easily. His hands find that familiar dip of Blaine's throat, trace it with tender fingers. In his mind he chants a mantra, familiar to him like the soft hum of static radio he hears every day on his way to work. A helix of _if only forever_'s that resounds like long forgotten and unexpectedly remembered words to an old song.

They are hunting for a memory, a vestige of what can decide their fate; make the choice for them. Blaine's lip trembles against Kurt's neck, where it leaves wet, desperate marks and fits perfectly into the cress he found so many years back. Without his subconscious tearing him away from the moment, he is not going to stop. Because right now, all he feels is that he belongs, that this is where he's meant to be, even if the 'this' is tangled towels on a bed made of grains intermixed with the strengthening wind, a lull of soft gasps and the fusing of names and the unmistakeable smell of the sea. Beneath it all, what he will remember of this moment is the hum of a steady heartbeat, fluttering away into the mid-morning sunlight, the tickle of light-brown hair against his chest, matted down with perspiration and the soft, lazy trails Kurt's fingers leave as they stroke over his hands, his arms, up over his back and when Blaine feels the younger boy's embrace lighten dangerously quickly, he draws him close and whispers to him.

"_Stop running_"

There's kisses in the rain and tears mingling with the dewy raindrops, rolling down lips in little droplets, moistening the kisses. There's an explosion of thunder up above as the sky splits in two for a crackle of a second, light blasting through the scene. There's the stillness of the moment, the way they simply look at each other, green against brown, a mesh of grass and mud complimenting each other beautifully. A palette of colours swims through their vision and when they breathe, it's a shiver, not from the cold but from the raw, intense feeling that lays itself out before them in flesh and blood.

They will work this out. Somehow, they will. They will find the way back to the place where they could speak unreserved about everything. They will find again the closeness they once shared, the intimacy and safety they found in each other's presence.

There's the feel of soft fingertips grazing his jawline, emanating a perfume of almonds, because it's all Kurt knows to do at this moment and the sound of Blaine sighing contentedly, because it's all he wants from it. When they whisper _I love you_'s and _never leave me_'s, it's only the wind that hears, the softness of their voices carried away on a stream of air, so that they only see lips moving almost intelligibly, but it's enough.

Maybe, it was always meant to be like this. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right? They know they would never have lasted in High School. Tribulations and regret that would ultimately have torn them apart have passed now. They have achieved all goals but one. They have all the time they need now. And all the promise of a happy future they could want.

* * *

><p>Later, they watch movies again, lost in a haze of brown and grey hues, discoloured by their age.<p>

And the next time they find themselves at the beach, they walk hand in hand, arms swinging back and forth in perfect interloped synchrony. When the night becomes a drowsy haze, they sit, lean against each other in the warm, chiselled sand. This time, their lines trace together in a new pattern. A pattern that shows them only possibilities, never the past. For the first time, their future is a promised 'together'.

* * *

><p><strong>fin.<strong>


End file.
